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GEORGE     MEREDITH 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

HIS  LIFE,  GENIUS  &  TEACHING 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF 
GONSTANTIN  PHOTIADES 
RENDERED  INTO  ENGLISH 
::      BY    ARTHUR    PRICE      :: 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1913 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  r*u* 

I.    A  Visit  to  Flint  Cottage  (22nd  September,  1908)      1 


II.     George  Meredith's  Life    .  .  .  .25 

III.  George  Meredith's  Genius  .  .  -7° 

IV.  George  Meredith's  Art    .  .  .  .164 
V.    George  Meredith's  Teaching  .  .  .199 

Conclusion     .           .           .  .  .  -249 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

CHAPTER    I 

A  VISIT   TO   FLINT   COTTAGE 

(22ND  September,  1908) 

ON  arriving  at  George  Meredith's  home,  at  Box 
Hill,  near  Dorking,  one  showery  afternoon  at 
the  end  of  September,  I  found  a  pretty  country  house, 
quite  different  from  the  luxurious  retreats  inhabited 
by  those  fashionable  French  writers  who  are  well 
assured  of  their  fame.  Many  wealthy  tradesmen 
possess  villas  far  more  pretentious  on  the  outskirts 
of  Paris  or  of  London.  But  the  charm  of  Flint 
Cottage  lies  in  its  absolute  simplicity.  The  little 
house,  where  Meredith  had  lived  for  forty  years,  is 
situated  half-way  up  a  slope  which  inclines  slowly 
towards  a  wood  of  firs  ;  a  little  garden,  admirably 
kept,  surrounds  it.  When  I  entered  the  garden,  the 
convolvuluses  were  more  than  half-closed  and  the 
first  drops  of  rain  fell  noiselessly  upon  the  grassy 
slopes  of  the  hill-side.    It  was  autumn  ;  and  the  day 


2  GEORGE   MEREDITH 

was  calm  and  fresh.  A  light  breeze  just  swayed  the 
leaves  of  the  lime  trees  and  the  elms,  which  had 
begun  to  turn  colour.  The  blackberries  were  already 
ripe  upon  the  brambles  ;  and  from  the  laurel  hedges 
exhaled  a  bitter  odour. 


I  am  received  by  a  lady,  who  is  a  trained  nurse 
and  also  Meredith's  housekeeper.  While  I  am 
taking  off  my  overcoat,  on  my  right  hand,  through 
the  open  door  of  a  narrow  room  or  study  I  catch 
sight  of  the  poet. 

A  dark-coloured  rug  is  wrapped  about  his  knees, 
as  he  sits  in  an  invalid's  chair  facing  a  photographic 
reproduction  of  Titian's  Sacred  and  Profane  Love. 
Over  the  mantelpiece  is  the  framed  picture  of  his 
wife,  and  there  are  other  pictures  in  colour  on  the 
walls.  Some  books  and  periodicals  litter  a  low  table 
on  the  left-hand  side  of  his  chair  ;  and  on  the  right 
is  a  fire-place.  Through  the  window  and  the  haze 
beyond  one  can  see,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  the 
branches  of  a  beech  intertwined  with  ivy  and  the 
little  lawn  and  garden  between  the  house  and  the  road. 

Meredith's  head,  as  outlined  in  this  unreal  light, 
stands  out  with  vigour,  even  with  severity,  against 
the  grey  depth  beyond.  His  abundant  silvery  hair 
curls  around  his  noble  and  ruddy  countenance.  His 
snow-white  beard  and  moustache  do  not  conceal 
a  rather  large  and  very  mobile  mouth.    His  nostrils 


A    VISIT    TO    FLINT    COTTAGE  3 

indicate  both  delicacy  and  pride  ;  his  eyes  retain 
their  eloquent  expression,  despite  the  film  which 
sometimes  veils  their  depths.  To  my  mind  Sargent 
has  caught  their  expression  better  than  Watts.1 
A  loose,  light  homespun  jacket  amplifies  his  figure. 
His  hands  display  a  movement,  an  energy,  and  a 
vigour  truly  surprising  in  an  old  man  who  is  partly 
paralysed.  The  nervous  and  quick  gestures  which 
accompany  his  speech,  denote  a  temperament 
certainly  passionate  if  not  irritable.  Decay  is  not 
apparent  in  this  splendid  old  man  of  eighty  ;  and, 
so  far  from  yielding  to  physical  decadence,  he 
struggles  to  deny  it.  Thus,  though  attacked  by 
ataxy,  Meredith  complains  that  he  is  no  longer 
allowed  to  go  out,  as  formerly,  and  ramble  across  the 
fields.  He  tells  me  that  he  is  a  great  smoker  ;  but 
in  my  presence  he  does  not  even  smoke  a  cigarette. 
His  memory  betrays  him  only  on  one  occasion,  when 
he  gropes  for  the  name  of  Gobineau.  He  attracts 
and  compels  attention  by  the  energy  of  his  utterances 
and  by  the  variety  of  his  reminiscences.  From  the 
first  words  of  welcome  which  I  receive,  I  notice 
that  he  speaks  both  clearly  and  distinctly,  and  that 
he  articulates  each  syllable  with  a  precision  very 
remarkable  in  an  Englishman.  Certainly,  apart 
from  his  sad  affliction,  he  would  appear  to  be  the 
embodiment  of  health. 

1  Cf.  the  portrait  at  the  commencement  of  the  "  edition  de 
luxe  "  of  The  Complete  Works,  published  by  Constable  and  Co.- 


4  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

"  Even  the  broken  pieces  of  Alexander's  empire 
were  magnificent,"  said  Pierre  Beyle  ;  and  Meredith, 
broken  by  age,  seemed  to  me  more  alert  than  most 
of  our  young  writers. 

But  few  strangers  visit  the  house  of  the  poet  ; 
for,  as  he  produced  his  masterpieces  in  solitude,  and 
without  other  encouragement  than  that  which  he 
received  from  a  limited  circle  of  friends,  he  now 
shrinks  from  his  new  admirers.  Failing  health  and 
increasing  deafness  make  him  shun  the  unfamiliar 
faces  of  men  who  cannot  now  see  him  as  he  was  in 
his  prime,  an  active  and  untiring  walker,  a  brilliant 
and  dazzling  conversationalist,  a  man  full  of  fire, 
vigorous  in  body  and  mind.  He  distrusts  clamorous 
enthusiasm.  He  subjects  each  request  for  an 
interview  to  a  severe  examination  ;  and,  for  his 
request  to  be  accorded,  the  visitor  must  either  be 
a  person  who  interests  him  or  must  come,  as  I  did, 
in  the  guise  of  a  messenger  from  France. 

If  Meredith  has  grown  somewhat  reserved,  it  is 
not  because  of  his  "  amour-propre  "  and  the  whims 
which  accompany  old  age  ;  it  is  rather  his  aversion 
to  the  interview,  by  which  quite  recently  he  has 
been  badly  treated.  For  example,  his  opinion  upon 
marriage,  wrongly  understood  and  wrongly  reported, 
has  shocked  the  whole  Anglo-Saxon  race.  He  also 
defends  himself  against  interviewers,  under  the 
pretext  that  the  interview  did  not  exist  in  his  day, 
when   he   himself   was   a   journalist.     A    publicist 


A   VISIT   TO    FLINT    COTTAGE  5 

despite  himself,  he  has  kept  a  very  painful  memory 
of  his  forced  labour  in  journalism. 

His  bete  noire  is  the  reporter.  "  Demand  nothing 
original  from  my  modern  compatriots  !  To-day 
they  choose  their  models  from  beyond  the  sea,  and 
for  preference  copy  the  French  and  the  Americans. 
France,  naturally,  purifies  their  taste.  But  America, 
that  cradled  Hercules,  infects  us  with  the  too  free 
manners  of  her  cowboys  and  rough  riders.  These 
trappers  communicate  to  us  their  eccentricity ; 
that  mania  for  besieging  persons  of  note  to  expose 
their  innermost  secrets.  Such  effrontery  stupefies 
us  ;  we  are  too  apt  to  take  this  unceremoniousness 
for  strength.  And,  now,  behold,  the  English 
journals  are  enviously  imitating  the  most  insolent 
habits  of  their  Transatlantic  brethren  !  " 

"  With  regard  to  journalists,  men  who  are  as 
influential  as  they  are  susceptible,  a  young  author 
has  a  choice  of  two  courses  ;  either  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  them,  or  to  make  use  of  them.  For  my 
own  part,  they  make  my  flesh  creep  :  I  have  never 
been  able  to  tolerate  them.  Robert  Browning 
certainly  did  not  neglect  them  in  his  old  age. 
Dickens  and  Thackeray  petted  them  as  a  horseman 
pets  his  mount  before  putting  it  at  an  obstacle.  As 
for  Lord  Tennyson,  he  was  a  past-master  in  the  art 
of  provoking  panegyrics  and  dithyrambs." 

"  Here  you  have  a  real  business  man  !  He  has 
made  literature  pay  ;   he  has  even  made  a  fortune 


6  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

out  of  it.  Like  an  ingenious  husbandman  he  has 
changed  the  barren  field  into  a  gold  mine.  '  He 
bleeds  me  !  '  groaned  his  publisher  piteously,  but 
paid  him  all  the  same.  It  was  useless  for  publishers 
to  deprecate  Tennyson's  so-called  eagerness  for  gain. 
They  yielded  to  his  demands,  and  the  world  would 
have  its  beloved  poet  at  any  price.  But  then,  you 
see,  my  countrymen  take  pleasure  in  these  interest- 
ing little  elegies ;  in  these  edifying  apologues ; 
these  psychic  crises  of  young  clergymen  silently 
tormented  by  doubt.  If  they  do  delight  in  these 
peaceful  struggles,  these  silent  conflicts,  it  is  because 
they  themselves  can  be  interested  without  any  risk 
of  danger  to  their  faith,  to  which  the  young  cleric, 
after  many  vicissitudes,  fails  not  to  conform.  Of 
course,  such  emotions  have  their  peculiar  charm. 
In  Memoriam  was  a  triumphant  success.  A  matter 
of  taste,  after  all !  But  you  Frenchmen  do  not  admire 
make-believes — above  all,  make-believe  champagne  ! 
"  However,  let  us  be  just  !  Lord  Tennyson, 
whom  I  admire,  has  the  enviable  distinction  and 
the  lucky  privilege  of  having  made  our  ugly  mono- 
syllabic language  sing.  An  English  musician  is 
really  a  kind  of  blue-bird.  Is  it  not  truly  awful  to 
compose  with  words  of  one  foot,  and  with  a  vocabu- 
lary which  limps  and  then  leaps  ?  We  pipe  upon  a 
bad  flute  which  is  shrill  and  discordant.  Shake- 
speare has  played  upon  it  with  wonderful  skill, 
Milton  with  more  facility.    However,  to  come  to  our 


A    VISIT    TO    FLINT    COTTAGE  7 

day,  Tennyson  and  Swinburne  have  wrung  out  of 
this  wretched  instrument  melodies,  stately,  im- 
passioned and  well  sustained. 

"  It  is  the  custom  to  be  enraptured  by  the  verbal 
nights  of  imagination  of  my  old  friend  Swinburne. 
Good  !    But  there  is  another  hidden  splendour,  and 
one  which  ought  to  be  revealed  to  the  public  ;   it  is 
his  daring  flow  of  language.     What  a  torrent  of 
boiling  lava  !    Do  you  like  the  translation  of  Omar 
Khayyam,  by  FitzGerald  ?     Yes  ?     That  is  good  ! 
The  plastic  seductiveness  of  that  work  fully  justifies 
its  immense  success.    I  relish  to  the  full  the  rhymes 
of  FitzGerald  and  his  beautifully  plaintive  harmonies, 
withal  so  mysterious  ;   but  how  can  one  approve  of 
his  pessimism  ?    Omar  Khayyam  is  the  vogue  to-day, 
and  I  know  it  only  too  well ;   but  it  is  necessary  to 
have  food  more  nourishing,  more  invigorating  for 
the  children  of  earth  !    However,  let  that  pass  !    In 
1859  I  was  with  some  friends  at  Copsham  Cottage, 
near  Esher  ;  and  on  a  certain  afternoon,  in  full  view 
of   all,   came   Swinburne   brandishing   a   pamphlet 
which    resembled   in   the    distance    a    Pietistic   or 
Methodist  tract.    He  looked  like  an  ecstatic  vision- 
ary.    Perhaps  we  should  have  feared  a  religious 
invocation  from  him,  had  we  not  been  well  aware  of 
his  religious  beliefs.     When  Swinburne  came  near, 
he   began  to   recite    in    a   high-pitched  voice   the 
beginning  of  that  splendid  paraphrase  which  he  had 
just  discovered.    His  enthusiasm  infected  us  ;   and 


8  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

so  much  so,  that  the  shades  of  night  found  us 
still  under  the  trees,  reciting  those  voluptuous  and 
musical  verses.  Upon  our  return,  after  dinner, 
Swinburne  sought  for  something  upon  which  to 
write  ;  and  then,  under  our  eyes,  in  one  attempt, 
he  composed  the  poem  Laus  Veneris,  one  of  the 
most  perfect  in  our  language." 

Meredith  is  suddenly  silent.  Does  he  see  again 
with  his  mind's  eye  those  far-off  years  of  his,  and 
the  young  northern  dreamers,  his  comrades,  intoxi- 
cated with  the  quatrains  of  Omar  Khayyam,  with 
the  voluptuousness,  the  longing  and  the  sadness 
of  the  roses  of  Ispahan  and  the  wine  of  Shiraz  ? 
Perhaps.  .  .  . 

All  this  time,  at  our  feet,  a  black  "Aberdeen" 
has  been  playing  with  a  ball ;  and  Meredith, 
watching  it,  with  kindly  irony  mutters  between  his 
teeth  : 

"  Funny  old  dog  !  Funny  old  dog  !  That 
animal  plays  in  this  way  the  whole  day  long. 
And  Miss  Nicholls  here  (with  a  slight  bow  in  her 
direction)  is  devoted  to  him.  In  the  depth  of 
winter,  during  frosty  nights,  if  the  dog  desires  to  go 
out,  she  jumps  out  of  bed,  leads  him  as  far  as  the  door, 
and  waits  patiently  upon  the  doorstep  of  the  cottage 
for  his  return.    An  attractive  occupation,  is  it  not  ?  " 

This  reminds  me  of  another  small  dog,  the  hero 
of  a  roguish  chapter,  delicate  and  delightful,  in 
One  of  our  Conquerors.    I  speak  of  it  to  Meredith, 


A    VISIT    TO    FLINT    COTTAGE  9 

who  thanks  me  for  this  reminder.  Thereupon  he 
jokingly  compliments  me  upon  having  attacked  his 
most  difficult  book  ;  and  indeed  One  of  our  Con- 
querors does  belong  to  the  category  of  "  difficult 
works."  Meredith  invites  me  to  look  upon  it  as  a 
kind  of  literary  vengeance. 

"  I  have  observed,"  says  he,  "  since  my  earlier 
works,  that  nothing  bewilders  the  critic  so  much 
as  that  which,  avoiding  banality,  demands  a  surfeit 
of  attention.  When  I  was  about  sixty,  and  I  had 
inherited  a  small  sum  of  money  which  made  me 
independent,  it  pleased  me  to  put  before  these 
critics  a  strong  dose  of  the  most  indigestible  material. 
I  presented  to  them  slyly,  Diana  of  the  Crossways  and 
the  novels  which  followed.  But  nothing  enraged 
them  so  much  as  One  of  our  Conquerors.  These  poor 
fellows  knew  not  by  what  saint  to  swear.  How 
could  they  give  an  account  of  the  cursed  volume  ? 
It  was  necessary  to  commence  by  understanding  it, 
and  they  groped  blindly  in  their  own  great  darkness." 

Meredith  laughs  heartily.  "  Have  you  read," 
continues  he,  "the  book  that  Mr.  X  has  published 
upon  my  poems  ?  It  is  a  work  denoting  great 
perspicacity,  and  marks  out  the  author  as  one 
possessing  originality.  But  I  am  astonished  that 
Mr.  X  has  separated  my  poetry  from  my  prose. 
My  thought  unites  itself  spontaneously  to  prose  and 
poetry,  even  as  my  flesh  to  my  brain  and  my  soul. 
Ah,  well  i     Here  we  have  a  man,  very  intelligent, 


10  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

well  informed,  a  good  writer  belonging  to  the  most 
refined  society  of  men,  among  whom  I  have  charming 
and  firm  friends.  But  every  critic  has  his  uncon- 
scious defect.  Mr.  X,  himself,  having  determined 
to  find  more  of  the  poet  in  me  than  the  novelist, 
extricates  himself  entirely  from  the  difficulties  of 
my  prose.  But  there  !  Critics  make  sport  of  authors. 
They  behave  despotically  to  us,  as  do  sultans  and 
czars  ;  yet  each  of  them  is  at  best  but  the  slave 
placed  near  the  conqueror  in  order  to  remind  him 
of  his  mortal  condition.  The  object  of  their  delight 
they  exalt  to  the  skies.  Here  and  there  they  find 
fault  with  a  weak  rhyme,  a  defective  image  ;  then 
they  organise  the  distribution  of  their  favours, 
enumerate  the  masterpieces,  classify  them,  and 
comment  upon  them.  The  rest  is  cast  upon  one 
side,  and  all  is  ended.  Do  not  implore  their 
clemency  !  These  magistrates  constitute  a  tribunal 
from  which  there  is  no  appeal ;  they  give  a  judg- 
ment which  is  expeditious  and  summary." 

"  The  press  has  often  treated  me  as  a  clown  or  a 
harlequin — yes,  really  !  And  with  such  little  respect 
that  my  fellow-citizens  can  scarcely  put  up  with  me. 
Do  not  cry  out !  Certainly,  at  this  late  hour  they 
accord  me  a  little  glory  ;  my  name  is  celebrated,  but 
no  one  reads  my  books.  As  for  Englishmen,  I  put 
them  to  flight  because  I  bore  them.  With  regard  to 
foreigners,  I  am  but  an  illustrious  unknown.  Think  ! 
all  my  poems  were,  until  1896,  published  at  my  own 


A    VISIT    TO    FLINT    COTTAGE         11 

expense  !  Really,  it  is  so  !  No  one  has  bought  my 
books — my  novels  or  my  poems.  And  now,  book- 
collectors  snatch  up  my  first  editions,  which  are  sold 
for  twenty  or  twenty-live  guineas.  Formerly  they 
would  have  wished  me  silent.  I  was  exceedingly 
poor,  and  I  needed,  even  as  a  negro  does,  to  earn  my 
bread.  What  articles,  what  patched-up  criticisms 
have  I  written  for  magazines  and  provincial  journals  ! 
At  last,  much  later,  the  inheritance  of  which  I  have 
spoken  to  you,  allowed  me  to  live  in  my  own  way  ; 
very  modestly  as  you  see,  in  this  peaceful  cottage. 
If  I  continue  to  write,  despite  the  prevailing 
indifference  to  my  work,  it  is  because  certain 
magazines,  notably  Scribner's  Magazine  in  America, 
pay  me  liberally  for  my  contributions.  My  con- 
temporaries here  know  nothing  of  it.  Lately  I  gave 
a  poem  to  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Review — — " 
"  The  Call,"  1  I  interrupted.  "  What  !  you  have 
read  it  ?  You  are  the  first  person  who  has  spoken 
of  it  to  me.  I  hoped  that  my  poetic  warning  would 
be  of  use  to  my  country.  Ah,  well !  It  has  passed 
unnoticed.  No,  my  countrymen  do  not  value  me, 
believe  me  ;  at  the  most  they  will  appreciate  me 
after  my  death. 

"  Sometimes,  by  my  fireside,  I  close  my  eyelids, 
and  then  whole  chapters  of  new  unwritten  novels 
thread  their  way  before  me.  But  for  whom  should  I 
write  them  ?    To  what  purpose  ?    Is  it  not  enough 

1  The  Call,  September,  1908. 


12  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

that  I  am  able  to  produce  from  time  to  time  a  little 
poetry  ?    I  am  too  old  now."         t 

He  added,  half  seriously,  half  pleasantly  :  "  But 
they  are  a  kind-hearted  people  !  They  have  a  heart  ! 
Their  history  is  truly  instructive  since  the  heavy 
Anglo-Saxon  temperament  has  commenced  to  fer- 
ment, thanks  to  the  Norman  leaven.  Of  themselves, 
the  Anglo-Saxons  would  have  constructed  nothing. 
Excuse  my  frankness.  I  am  altogether  Celtic  : 
Welsh  on  my  father's  side,  and  Irish  on  my  mother's. 
Neither  does  the  Norman  possess  the  fervid 
temperament ;  no  generosity,  and  no  spontaneous 
poetry  ;  but,  despite  his  lack  of  imagination,  he  has 
great  keenness,  the  gift  of  command,  and  of  states- 
manship. Really,  the  Englishman,  his  intelligence 
dulled  by  his  wealth,  will  not  awaken  unless  a 
German  invasion  occurs,  or  a  slaughter  upon  his 
northern  shores. 

"  We  have  no  army.  The  army  in  India  is 
marvellously  equipped  and  disciplined,  but  what 
purpose  does  it  serve  as  regards  England  ?  Besides, 
India  is  our  weak  point.  We  neglect  our  own 
European  England.  One  day,  when  it  has  crumbled 
still  further,  we  shall  say  adieu  to  our  colonies,  to 
the  vast  continents  of  the  antipodes,  to  the  archi- 
pelago spread  abroad  upon  the  equatorial  seas.  We 
shall  not  then  have  enough  of  our  matchless  navy 
to  defend  ourselves.  And  if  Germany  were  to  beat 
us  as  she  has  beaten  France,  should  we  revive  ?     I 


A    VISIT    TO    FLINT    COTTAGE         13 

doubt  it.  France  possesses  wealth  of  many  kinds  ; 
the  wealth  of  England  is  strictly  commercial. 
Should  anyone  extort  from  us  a  crushing  war- 
indemnity,  we  are  ruined  unless  we  can  re-establish 
our  industries  and  the  power  to  protect  our  com- 
merce and  our  food  supplies." 

On  every  occasion  Meredith  manifests  his  venera- 
tion for  France.  He  has  very  frequently  been  there, 
although  it  is  now  twenty  years  since  he  last  paid 
her  a  visit.  In  former  days  he  had  hardly  arrived 
at  Paris  before  he  sauntered  out  on  the  boulevards 
in  a  kind  of  intoxication.  One  evening,  as  he  was 
walking  from  the  St.  Lazare  station,  he  met  a  young 
girl  who  was  singing  aloud  as  she  walked  along. 
She  was  so  pretty  that  a  clerk  upon  the  step  of  a 
shop  threw  her  some  kisses.  She,  far  from  being 
disconcerted,  nodded  her  head  carelessly  and 
indifferently,  and  passed  on  her  way  without  ceasing 
to  sing.  She  sang  for  herself ;  for  her  own  pleasure, 
because  the  evening  was  beautiful  and  because  at 
heart  she  was  happy.  Such  charming  simplicity 
cannot  be  conceived  in  England.  The  English  have 
no  sense  of  the  natural  outpourings  of  the  heart. 
"  No  outcome  !  "  declares  Meredith,  after  apologising 
for  this  awkward  expression. 

No  less  than  the  landscape  does  French  art  delight 
him.  Speaking  of  the  Wallace  Collection,  the  one 
he  likes  best  in  London,  he  expresses  his  admiration 
of  the  eighteenth  century  of  Watteau,  La  Tour, 


14  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Chardin  and  Fragonard.  But  except  the  school  of 
Constable,  few  painters  equal  in  his  opinion  the 
work  of  the  great  French  landscape  painters  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  among  whom  Corot  is  his 
favourite.  This  man  has  looked  upon  nature  more 
kindly  than  all  others.  He  has  painted  her  with  the 
dew  of  the  dawn.  He  has  made  of  a  tender  birch, 
rustling  near  a  pool,  a  veritable  masterpiece  ;  a 
chaste  solitude  where  the  nymphs  in  chorus  blithely 
come  to  sing  their  hymns. 

I  venture  upon  the  name  of  Turner.  "  A  strange 
fellow,"  replies  Meredith  pensively.  "  Imagine  a 
squat,  snappish  rapscallion,  a  gnome,  who  painted 
the  most  dazzling  landscapes  at  Chelsea  !  Towards 
the  end  of  each  month,  having  stuffed  ten  pounds 
into  his  trouser  pockets,  he  used  to  wander  to  the 
low  quarters  of  London  and  mingle  with  the  girls, 
sailors,  and  the  usual  visitors  of  these  slums.  His 
ten  pounds  being  demolished  in  food  and  drink 
among  this  debauched  throng,  he  would  return  to 
his  brushes.  Genial  scatterbrain  !  I  scarcely  like 
his  Venetian  fantasies.  But  he  is  unsurpassed  when 
he  gives  us  dawns,  sunsets,  tempests  or  regattas 
upon  the  coasts  of  the  English  Channel." 

Meredith  knew  personally  the  Princes  of  Orleans, 
during  their  exile  in  England  under  the  reign  of 
Napoleon  III. 

"  These  sons  of  Louis-Philippe,  handsome,  brave, 
polished,    elegant    and    well-read,    the    Duke    of 


A   VISIT   TO    FLINT    COTTAGE         15 

Nemours  with  his  grand  air,  and  the  Prince  de 
Joinville  so  like  Francis  I  with  his  hanging  lower 
lip,  his  square-cut  beard  and  his  long,  almond- 
shaped  eyes,  they  explain  to  me  better  than  all 
memories  the  charm  of  ancient  France.  We  had 
very  friendly  relationships  with  them  when  they 
lodged  at  Claremont.  But  I  never  felt  attracted  by 
the  vague  and  slow  intellect  of  the  Comte  de  Paris. 
On  the  day  when  he  spoke  to  me  of  making  certain 
reforms  when  he  should  be  re-established  in  his 
hereditary  place  upon  the  throne,  I  mentally  hoped 
that  he  might  never  be  seated  there.  France,  that 
impetuous  thoroughbred,  needs  a  more  gallant 
cavalier." 

Upon  entering  Meredith's  house,  I  had  noticed 
that  he  was  turning  the  pages  of  a  recent  number 
of  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes.  Our  literature 
interests  him  not  less  than  our  politics  ;  he  follows 
them  both.  Hence  his  predilection  for  the  latest 
works  of  Anatole  France. 

"  Excellent  books  which  I  re-read  constantly  ! 
Do  you  not  approve  of  M.  Bergeret  mingling  such 
irony  with  his  common  sense  ?  His  reflections  upon 
the  Dreyfus  affair  pleased  me  by  their  justness. 
But  this  lamentable  quarrel  has  done  France  a  lot 
of  harm.  And  why,  I  ask,  this  bitter  rancour  ? 
Because  the  honour  of  the  army  had  been  placed  in 
question  ?  Ah,  yes  !  France  foams  at  the  mouth 
once  the  honour  of  her  army  is  questioned.    Anatole 


16  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

France  has  defended  his  personal  conviction  with 
no  less  courage  than  delicacy.  If  I  were  younger, 
I  should  certainly  have  written  something  upon 
that  drama." 

Meredith  scrutinises  me  ;  then,  seeing  that  I  am 
silent,  and  that  it  would  be  more  agreeable  to  me 
to  return  to  the  question  of  art  and  literature, 
quite  abruptly  checks  himself,  and  gives  me  the 
names  of  his  French  visitors.  He  relates  to  me  his 
interview  with  Alphonse  Daudet,  "  a  man  as 
brilliant  and  charming  as  his  books,"  and  he 
adds  : 

"  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  Clemen- 
ceau  ;  and  I  highly  esteem  this  indefatigable  fighter. 
Would  not  France  have  found  in  him  a  minister  fit 
to  lead  her  ?  His  conversation  captivated  me  much 
more  than  that  of  a  certain  Alsatian  countess, 
who  was  very  reactionary,  and  who  was  presented 
to  me  with  a  recommendation  from  the  academician 
Costa  de  Beauregard.  Is  he  a  count  or  a  marquis  ? 
I  do  not  really  know.  I  have  always  relished  his 
study  of  Charles  Emmanuel  of  Savoy.  One  could 
have  written  a  curious  tragi-comedy  upon  the  Court 
of  Turin  in  the  eighteenth  century  !  " 

I  wished  to  recite  the  romantic  attempt  of  Robert 
Browning,  King  Victor  and  King  Charles,  and  to 
direct  the  interview  towards  that  great  and  singular 
poet,  but  George  Meredith  does  not  give  me  the 
opportunity,  for  he  continues  : 


A   VISIT   TO    FLINT   COTTAGE         17 

"  Are  they  always  as  severe  in  Paris  upon 
Gobineau  ?  I  agree  in  neglecting  his  History  of  the 
Persians,  but  I  beg  to  draw  your  attention  to  his 
dialogues  of  the  Renaissance.  To  place  the  Borgias 
upon  the  stage  is  evidently  not  a  very  malicious 
thing  to  do  ;  but  to  evoke  the  illustrious  shades  of 
certain  cardinals  or  humanists,  that  certainly 
proves  a  profound  and  delicate  knowledge  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  Excuse  me  !  I  forget  that  no 
dialogue  is  pleasing  to  Frenchmen  unless  it  is 
dramatic. 

"  You  see,  I  continually  think  about  France.  If 
I  could  again  undertake  the  journey  to  Paris,  I 
should  establish  myself  in  an  hotel  in  the  Champs- 
Elysees.  What  a  joy  once  more  to  see  the  Louvre, 
and  the  walks  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. — Is  not 
Paris  spoiled  by  the  odour  and  the  uproar  of 
motors  and  motor-omnibuses  ?  I  love  the  speed  of 
the  motor,  but  how  disgusting  the  dust,  the  smoke, 
and  the  nauseous  odours  ! 

"  Perhaps  I  should  feel  less  strange  in  the  south. 
The  twentieth  century  ought  not  to  have  desecrated 
Nimes,  Aries,  Avignon,  those  magnificent  towns 
now  dead,  where  the  Gallic-Roman  administration 
contrasts  with  the  theocracy  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  '  Felibrige  '  has  all  my  sympathy.  I  have 
studied  the  Provencal  tongue  to  sufficient  purpose 
to  be  acquainted  with  your  admirable  Mistral. 
I  have  even  translated  into  English  verse  some 
c 


18  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

stanzas  of  Mireille.1  Also  Aubanel  himself  is 
familiar  to  me.  But  how  much  he  is  dwarfed  by  a 
comparison  with  Mistral !  The  latter  has  the 
abundance  and  clearness  of  a  spring.  I  once  found 
myself  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Maillane,  and  I  could 
have  had  access  to  Mistral  through  the  medium  of 
our  common  friend  Bonaparte-Wyse,  had  I  not 
feared  to  impose  myself  upon  him.  What  a 
nuisance  intruders  are  !  But  this  fine  fellow  is 
certainly  able  to  keep  them  at  a  distance.  From  the 
portrait  that  he  has  sent  me  (and  Meredith  pointed 
to  a  post -card  photograph  of  Mistral  that  stood 
upon  the  mantelpiece)  I  divine  a  poet,  beloved  of 
the  gods ;  a  hero  who  has  fully  known  the  enjoyment 
of  his  own  strength." 

Meredith  deplores  that  he  has  dedicated  to  the 
glory  of  France  only  the  selection  entitled,  Odes  in 
Contribution  to  the  Song  of  French  History.  In  view 
of  my  visit  he  has  a  copy  of  the  volume  by  him,  and 
when  he  offers  it  to  me  with  an  autograph  inscrip- 
tion, he  asks  me  if  I  have  read  the  Ode  to  Napoleon. 
I  reply  in  the  affirmative ;  but  that  I  was  particularly 
moved  by  the  piece  entitled,  France,  December,  1870, 
published  at  the  time  of  our  defeat,2  and  so  pulsating 
with  affection.  His  reply  is  suggestive  of  some 
slight  disappointment  : 

1  They  will  be  found  at  the  end  of  the  volume,  An  Inter- 
pretation of  Life. 

8  See  the  Fortnightly  Review,  January,  1871. 


A   VISIT   TO    FLINT    COTTAGE         19 

"  Without  doubt,  it  is  the  most  successful  and 
the  most  perfect ;  but  the  other  touches  me  more, 
because  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  accurately 
drawn  the  character  of  Napoleon,  and  clearly  stated 
that  his  genius  was  in  absolute  contradiction  to  the 
traditional  genius  of  France." 

And  here  he  commences  to  recite  the  first  lines  of 
his  Ode  to  Napoleon.  His  voice,  low-pitched,  caver- 
nous and  vibrating,  rises  and  warms  to  the  measure : 
enthusiasm  transports  him  ;  he  raises  by  sudden 
movements  of  his  foot  the  plaid  which  covers  his 
limbs.  Then,  suddenly  the  volume  falls  from  his 
hand,  and  he  says  to  me  : 

"  I  burn  to  serve  France,  I  assure  you  !  Un- 
happily, we  English  are  not  able  to  do  anything  for 
you  because  we  have  lost  your  confidence.  '  Per- 
fidious Albion  !  '  That  is  how  you  designate  my 
country  !  It  is  unjust.  I  sometimes  ask  myself 
what  was  the  origin  of  your  distrust.  Was  it  the 
treacherous  and  brutal  burning  of  the  Danish  fleet 
by  Nelson  ?  " 

How  could  I  dare  to  recall  to  Meredith's  mind  the 
outrages  of  Boscawen,  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XV,  the 
many  wars  and  other  incidents  ? 

I  have  no  sweeter  memory  than  this  old  man  so 
passionately  enamoured  of  France. 

"  All  these  questions  beset  my  curiosity,"  he 
concludes.  "  Living  alone,  I  am  able  to  examine 
them  at  leisure.    I  scarcely  see  more  than  three  of 


20  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

my  old  friends,  apart  from  my  own  folk,  namely, 
my  son,  and  my  daughter  who  actually  returns  from 
Paris  to-morrow.  As  to  solitude,  I  have  been 
accustomed  to  it  since  my  youth  ;  it  is  an  old  friend. 
And  I  am  interested  in  so  many  things  that  I  never 
feel  lonely.  Papers  and  books  make  up  my  society. 
They  keep  for  me  those  precious  and  lofty  illusions 
which  are  dissipated  by  contact  with  men.  When 
I  have  passed  the  hours  in  reading,  all  alone  in  my 
arm-chair,  I  am  happy  to  feel  that  I  am  as  rich  in 
intellectual  desire  as  a  young  man  of  your  own  age. 

"  But  you,  sir,  who  honour  me  by  presenting  my 
works  to  the  French  public,  why  do  you  yoke 
yourself  to  this  barren  task  ?  You  appear  to  me  to 
be  imaginative  !  Give  us  then  some  original  work  ! 
And  above  all,  if  you  speak  of  my  first  appearance 
as  an  author,  pass  lightly  over  my  first  poems, 
faults  of  youth  which  put  me  in  despair.  It  is  not 
to  my  liking  that  they  have  reprinted  them  in  the 
'  edition  de  luxe '  of  my  collected  works.  Ah  !  how 
I  wish  I  could  destroy  them  !  " 

Meredith  has  just  heard  of  the  death  of  Sarasate  ; 
and  he  displays  a  real  sorrow.  Formerly  he  was 
assiduous  in  following  the  concerts  given  by  that 
enchanting  violinist.  Nor  did  he  often  miss 
Joachim's  recitals,  but  he  considers  him  a  magician 
less  extraordinary  than  Sarasate.  The  Spaniard 
had  more  passion ;  the  German  more  reserve  and 
more   style.     The   playing  of   both  these   masters 


A    VISIT   TO    FLINT    COTTAGE         21 

enchanted  Meredith.  Alas  !  he  has  had  to  renounce 
this  pleasure  for  many  years.  The  deafness  which 
troubles  him  becomes  ever  worse.  Bent  towards 
me  (I  am  seated  at  his  left  hand  against  the  table 
containing  books  and  periodicals)  he  turns  his  right 
ear,  which  is  the  more  sensitive,  and  avows  his  dis- 
tress. 

"It  is  a  phenomenon  exceedingly  curious  and 
troublesome.  I  hear  all  sounds  in  a  false  register, 
in  a  false  key.  This  makes  a  series  of  wrong  notes. 
What  a  miserable  infirmity  !  I  suffer  from  it  most 
acutely  !    And  it  is  so  humiliating." 

Apropos  of  this  deafness  ;  Meredith  has  never 
been  able  to  resign  himself  to  his  decline.  He 
warned  me  by  letter  that  he  is  almost  excluded  from 
all  conversation,  and  reduced  to  soliloquise  in  the 
presence  of  his  friends.  "  Allow  me  to  warn  you 
that  I  am  hard  of  hearing  ;  it  is  the  price  paid  for 
my  eighty  years."  Soon  after,  in  the  vestibule,  h]s 
housekeeper  avows  to  me  that  even  the  members  of 
his  family  are  hardly  understood  by  him,  the  more 
so  in  that  Meredith  does  not  admit  his  deafness,  as 
was  the  case  also  with  Beethoven,  to  whom  they 
spoke  by  means  of  writing.  In  vain  the  poet  is  urged 
to  use  an  ear-trumpet  ;  his  pride  will  not  allow  it. 

"  He  is  too  proud,"  sighs  the  good  lady,  a  little 
vexed. 

Who  would  not  retain  a  painful  recollection  of 
such  an  interview  ?    I  expected  a  serenity  bordering 


22  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

upon  ataraxy  from  a  wise  man  who  had  read  so 
clearly  the  book  of  Earth  (.4  Reading  of  Earth,  1888) 
and  the  book  of  Life  (A  Reading  of  Life,  1901).  How 
is  it  possible  not  to  revolt  against  Meredith  himself, 
when  he  wilfully  lowers  his  own  pride  by  displaying 
such  supercilious  and  bitter  modesty  ? 

"To  be  read  or  not  to  be  read,  troubles  not  my 
peace  of  mind.  At  eighty  years  of  age,  a  writer  has 
that  which  he  deserves.  My  works  belong  to  man- 
kind. I  never  refuse  my  permission  to  translators, 
for  fear  that  they  may  have  a  pressing  need  for 
money.  And  if  the  French  translation  of  The  Egoist 
does  not  satisfy  my  friends  over  the  Channel,  I 
sympathise  with  their  complaints  without  sharing 
their  bitterness." 

It  is  possible  that  the  wise  and  the  saintly 
Buddhists,  by  a  heroic  renunciation,  are  thus  raised 
to  a  complete  knowledge  of  things.  But  in  this  case, 
despite  these  exterior  indifferences,  one  perceives 
that  Meredith  suffers  continually,  deeply,  at  being 
so  misunderstood  by  his  contemporaries.  This, 
however,  results  largely  from  their  being  shocked 
by  the  boldness  of  his  opinions.  His  housekeeper, 
for  example,  this  indisputable  witness,  this  constant 
companion,  what  must  she  think  of  his  criticisms  of 
England  ?  Further,  Meredith  is  not  kindly  disposed 
towards  official  religion.  His  dislike  of  Anglicanism 
prompted  him  to  describe  it  recently  as  :  "  That 
fable  of  Christian  faith  "  !    Such  a  remark  perhaps 


A   VISIT   TO    FLINT    COTTAGE         28 

does  not  represent  the  extent  of  his  opinion.  A 
passing  irritation  sometimes  renders  him  more 
aggressive  than  is  reasonable.  But  the  cry  of  his 
soul  is  still  the  same  as  in  1862,  when  he  published 
the  sonnets  Modem  Love.  He  seems  to  repeat 
constantly  :  "  More  brain,  O  Lord,  more  brain  !  " 
Alas  !  after  fifty  years  of  waiting,  his  prayer  is  not 
yet  heard. 

Never  to  know  if  the  Master  has  heard  you  ;  to 
strain  the  voice  for  the  most  ordinary  reply,  for  the 
commonplaces  of  politeness  ;  to  stammer  laboriously 
through  with  these  insipid  words  ;  and  then  to  find 
it  necessary  to  restrain  continually  the  flood  of 
passionate  admiration  which  seeks,  nevertheless, 
to  declare  itself  ;  the  visible  self-deception  of  the 
poet  when  he  does  not  succeed  in  penetrating  the 
thought  of  his  interlocutor ;  all  this  ends  by 
creating  an  intolerable  uneasiness.  After  some 
hours  I  experience  a  choking  sensation.  That  my 
fatigue  does  not  escape  Meredith's  notice  is  most 
heartrending.  His  clear  eyes  regard  me  with  a  kind 
of  mocking  pity  :  "  You,  also,"  they  reproachingly 
say  tome;  "  you,  like  others,  give  way  ;  you  yield 
to  your  weariness  !  And  this  is  the  result  of  an 
interview  with  George  Meredith  !  " 

As  I  rise  to  take  leave,  Meredith,  who  moves  with 
extreme  difficulty,  endeavours  to  straighten  himself 
in  his  arm-chair.  I  beg  him  to  remain  seated.  He 
makes  a  kind  of  Turkish  salute.     Placing  his  right 


24  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

hand  upon  his  heart,  he  questions  me  with  a  sad 
smile  : 

"  Shall  you  come  again  to  Box  Hill  ?  You  are  not 
disappointed  with  your  visit  ?    Really  not  ?  ' 

More  showers  of  rain  in  the  garden  while  I  stand 
there,  before  going  down  to  the  station.  Under  the 
fitful  wind,  the  ash  trees  creak  feebly,  and  strange 
undulations  course  over  the  grass.  I  am  alone, 
listening  to  this  music.  There  is  no  one  upon  the 
watery  roads.  Down  in  the  west  the  sun  is  dying 
in  magnificence.  His  long  shafts  of  gold  are  broken 
against  the  window-panes  of  Flint  Cottage.  Some- 
thing divine  is  abroad  in  the  solitudes.  But  of  the 
odours  that  rise  from  the  soft,  wet  earth,  none  is  so 
bitter  as  the  perfume  of  the  laurels. 


CHAPTER    II 
GEORGE  MEREDITH'S   LIFE 

WITH  the  statement  that  he  was  born  in  Hamp- 
shire on  the  12th  of  February,  1828,  George 
Meredith  turned  his  back  upon  questioners.  We 
find  none  of  those  anecdotes  with  which  Rousseau, 
Chateaubriand,  Goethe  and  Victor  Hugo  supply  us 
so  plentifully.  He  did  not  recount  his  memories  ; 
he  never  spoke  of  his  intellectual  development,  as 
if,  too  faithful  to  his  own  beliefs,  he  distrusted  the 
familiar  gossip,  the  accommodating  and  lengthy 
accounts  where  the  "  ego  "  is  too  readily  emphasised. 

In  default  of  authentic  texts,  and  correct  records, 
the  most  personal  impressions  of  his  youth  were 
wrongly  sought  for  among  the  chimerical  Adventures 
of  Harry  Richmond  ;  and  it  was  supposed  that  some- 
thing of  the  truth  was  mingled  with  the  poetry  of 
that  romance  ;  that  this  alone  of  his  works  was  cast 
in  an  autobiographical  mould.  The  frequenters  of 
the  literary  clubs  of  London  secretly  whispered 
strange  stories  of  the  sources  of  Evan  Harrington. 

Here  calumny  and  curiosity  truly  played  in  secret. 

25 


26  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

The  disciples  and  friends  of  the  poet  would  have 
had  some  difficulty  in  defending  him,  since  upon  this 
matter  he  kept  strict  guard  on  himself,  distrusting 
even  them.  If  they  tried  to  sound  him,  either  by 
surprise  or  by  an  artifice,  they  found  him  impene- 
trable. Certainly  at  the  time  in  which  he  drew  near 
to  the  end  of  his  days,  during  the  interviews  which 
were  turned  into  soliloquies  on  account  of  his  ever- 
increasing  deafness,  it  happened  that  the  old  man, 
passing  from  one  thought  to  another,  would  revive 
some  memory  of  his  far-off  youth.  But  he  im- 
mediately arrested  himself,  as  if  the  feeble  sound  of 
his  voice  had  become  unbearable,  since  he  was 
thinking  aloud  of  the  lost  period  ;  and  taking  refuge 
once  again  in  silence,  he  would  remain  a  mystery  to 
the  startled  questioner. 

This  is  precisely  what  happened  at  Flint  Cottage 
on  the  31st  of  March,  1901,  when  he  said  to  his  friend 
Mr.  Edward  Clodd  :  1 

"  How  lucky  it  is  that  you  are  here  !  Would  you  be 
kind  enough  to  fill  in  the  details  of  this  census  paper  for 
me?" 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  evening  when  the  census  of  1901  was 
taken,  and  there  were  many  questions  to  answer. 

Mr.  Edward  Clodd  began  by  writing  down  the  details 
about  the  servants. 

Afterwards,  addressing  the  master  of  the  house,  he 
demanded  without  any  preliminary  where  the  novelist 
was  born.    George  Meredith  replied  ungraciously  : 

1  Cf.  Edward  Clodd,  "Some  Recollections"  [Fortnightly 
Review,  July,  1909). 


HIS    LIFE  27 

"  Is  that  necessary  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  Well,  put  Hampshire." 

"  Oh,    that's    too    vague ;     you'll    have    the    paper 
returned  for  more  definite  answer." 
"  Well,  say  near  Petersfield.  ..." 

It  needed  therefore  unusual  circumstances  to 
obtain  the  half-confessions  of  George  Meredith,  and 
his  friends  never  drew  from  him  more  than  this,  that 
he  was  five  years  old  when  he  lost  his  mother. 
Reluctantly  he  added  : 

"  My  mother  was  of  Irish  origin,  handsome,  refined  and 
witty.  I  think  that  there  must  have  been  some  Saxon 
strain  in  the  ancestry  to  account  for  a  virility  of  tempera- 
ment which  corrected  the  Celtic  in  me,  although  the 
feminine  rules  in  so  far  as  my  portraiture  of  womanhood 
is  faithful.  My  father,  who  lived  to  be  seventy-five, 
was  a  muddler  and  a  fool.  He  married  again,  and 
emigrated  to  Cape  Town.  .  .  ."  1 

Since  George  Meredith's  death  the  English  journals, 
and  notably  some  slightly  imaginative  newspapers 
from  the  Cape,  have  brought  to  light  that  mysterious 
and  obscure  personage,  the  father  of  the  illustrious 
poet.  And  we  have  come  to  know  not  only  Augustus 
Armstrong  Meredith,  but  a  figure  much  more 
interesting,  much  more  characteristic,  the  grand- 
father, Melchisedec  2  Meredith.    The  latter,  who  was 

1  Cf.  Edward  Clodd,  article  already  mentioned. 

2  Melchisedec  !  .  .  .  How  is  it  possible  not  to  think  of  the 
famous  "  Mel,"  "  Great  Mel,"  father  of  Evan  Harrington  ? 


28  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

a  churchwarden  of  his  parish  at  Portsmouth,  between 
the  years  1801  and  1804,  is  generally  depicted 
as  a  dandified  and  dilettante  tailor,  who  thought 
himself  quite  a  gentleman;  and  whose  imposing 
deportment,  handsome  looks,  good  fortune,  correct 
speech  and  aristocratic  friendships,  exalted  his 
somewhat  lowly  calling.  The  portrait  is  accurate 
enough,  especially  if  one  adds  that  Melchisedec 
Meredith  was  not  properly  speaking  a  tailor,  but  a 
naval  outfitter  ;  apart  from  his  business  connections, 
he  was  quite  a  man  of  the  world,  and  was  generous  to 
prodigality.  Melchisedec  did  not  confine  himself 
to  supplying  the  naval  officers  with  clothes  and 
equipment,  but  he  liberally  entertained  them  at  his 
table,  and  maintained  cordial  relations  with  them. 
There  is  reference  made  to  this  business  house  in 
Peter  Simple  by  Captain  Marryat.  Mel's  politeness 
was  certainly  that  of  former  days,  and  he  was  quite 
a  man  of  fashion. 

George  Meredith  was  born  above  the  ancestral 
shop  and  baptised  on  the  9th  of  April,  1828,  in  the 
church  of  St.  Thomas. 

The  wife  of  Augustus  Armstrong  Meredith  was 
Jane  Eliza,  daughter  of  Michael  Macnamara,  of  the 
Point,  Portsmouth.  In  July,  1833,  George  Mere- 
dith's mother  died. 

As  for  Augustus  Meredith,  he  consoled  himself 
for  his  misfortune  and  financial  difficulties  by  con- 
tracting a  second  marriage.     We  find  him  in  the 


HIS    LIFE  29 

year  1850  at  Cape  Town,  in  South  Ainca.,  where  he 
kept  a  well-patronised  shop  at  the  corner  of  St. 
George's  Street  and  Hout  Street.  But  experience 
must  have  made  him  wiser,  since  certain  of  his  old 
customers  depict  him  as  a  very  reserved  man,  who 
made  little  mention  of  his  former  life,  but  was  not 
unwilling  to  insinuate  that  in  England  he  used  to 
move  in  the  most  exclusive  society.  Of  a  healthy 
complexion  and  imposing  figure,  in  some  respects  he 
resembled  his  son  George,  notably  in  his  extra- 
ordinary powers  of  endurance  when  walking.  For 
example,  at  the  age  of  sixty-six  he  climbed  Table 
Mountain  without  fatigue  in  the  company  of  a 
younger  man.  At  last,  between  1865  and  1867  he 
gave  up  his  establishment,  retired  from  business, 
and  returned  with  his  wife  to  England,  where  he 
settled  at  Southsea. 

In  his  shop  at  Cape  Town  he  spoke  rarely,  but 
always  with  pride,  of  his  son,  the  poet -novelist. 
He  used  to  lend  willingly  to  his  intimates  Shagpat  and 
Farina.  But  on  one  occasion,  in  i860,  Mr.  B.  T. 
Lawton,  of  Rondebosch,  his  customer  and  personal 
friend,  found  him  dreadfully  dispirited.  It  was 
about  the  time  at  which  the  romance,  Evan  Harring- 
ton, appeared  in  serial  form  in  a  London  periodical. 
And  the  circumspect  tailor  upon  that  day  must  have 
experienced  a  great  need  for  sympathy,  for  he  could 
could  not  help  demanding  of  his  visitor  if  he  had 
read  the  first  chapters  of  this  story. 


30  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  he,  "  that  I  am  pained 
beyond  all  expression,  because  I  have  reason  to 
think  that  the  story  is  directed  towards  me.  And, 
to  complete  the  bitterness,  the  author  is  my  own 
son  !  .  .  ." 

Since  that  experience,  the  tailor's  friends  never 
borrowed  his  son's  works  from  him.  .  .  . 

These  pictures  of  Augustus  Armstrong,  and  above 
all  of  Melchisedec  Meredith,  may  amuse.  For  our 
part,  if  they  interest  us,  it  is  simply  because  they 
sometimes  occupied  the  imagination  of  the  novelist. 
But  let  us  refrain  from  exaggerating  their  influence. 
If  we  do  not  represent  George  Meredith  as  one  of 
those  lonely  children,  from  whom  some  terrible 
family  secret  is  hidden,  and  who  grow  up  in  an 
atmosphere  of  oppression,  it  is  because  the  truth  was 
infinitely  more  simple — with  apologies  to  lovers  of 
melodrama  !  .  .  .  Augustus  Armstrong  Meredith 
understood  nothing  about  business  matters.  Even 
more  prodigal  than  his  father  Melchisedec,  he  ended 
by  frittering  away  his  business  and  had  to  resign 
himself  to  the  necessity  of  leaving  Portsmouth,  of 
becoming  expatriated,  and  of  seeking  his  fortune  in 
South  Africa. 

It  is  certainly  true  that  the  first  modern  novel  by 
George  Meredith,  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel, 
relates  to  us  the  misfortunes  of  a  rich  and  well-born 
young  man  who,  in  opposition  to  his  father,  marries 
a  beautiful  maid  of  humble  origin.    His  second  novel, 


HIS    LIFE  31 

Evan  Harrington,  concerns  a  tailor  in  whom  we  may 
recognise  his  father.  Is  it  because  of  these  vague 
reminiscences,  rarely  mentioned  in  any  of  his  books, 
that  George  Meredith  was  so  reticent  about  his 
origin  ?  .  .  .  Did  he  fear  that  he  would  be  rebuked, 
as  was  Charles  Dickens  formerly  in  creating  the 
inexpressible  Micawber,  as  having  placed  upon 
the  stage  certain  of  his  relations  ?  .  .  .  Perhaps 
so,  perhaps  not  !  .  .  . 

•      • 

In  any  case,  it  is  useless  to  maintain  that  Augustus 
and  George  Meredith  never  entered  into  direct  rela- 
tionship with  one  another.  They  communicated  by 
letter,  and  even  used  to  see  one  another  at  intervals. 
The  father  did  not  take  any  very  active  part  in  the 
education  of  his  son,  who  was  first  educated  at  St. 
Paul's  Church  School,  Southsea.  His  mother,  upon 
her  death,  bequeathed  to  him  a  modest  inheritance, 
the  administrator  of  which  afterwards  placed  the 
little  George  at  a  boarding-school.  And  Meredith, 
later  on,  confided  this  to  Mr.  Clodd  : 

Practically  left  alone  in  boyhood,  I  was  placed  by 
the  trustee  of  my  mother's  small  property  at  school, 
my  chief  remembrance  of  which  is  three  dreary  services 
on  Sundays,  the  giving  out  of  the  text  being  the  signal 
to  me  for  inventing  tales  of  the  Saint  George  and  Dragon 
type.  I  was  fond  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  this  doubt- 
less fed  an  imagination  which  took  shape  in  The  Shaving 
of  Shagpat,  written,  I  may  tell  you,  at  Weybridge,  with 


32  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

duns  at  the  door.     But  I  learned  very  little  at  school, 
until  I  was  sent  to  Neuwied.  .  .  .* 

And  thus,  even  as  Harry  Richmond,  young 
Meredith  journeyed  early  into  Germany.  But  he 
remained  there  much  longer,  as  he  resided  at  the 
home  of  the  Moravian  Brothers  at  Neuwied  near 
Coblenz  for  eighteen  months.  This  was  a  painful 
apprenticeship.  "  The  German  character,"  said  he, 
"  is  astonishingly  ponderous ! "  .  .  .  God  knows  if 
he  distorts  Germanic  methods  in  his  Essay  upon 
Comedy  !  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  he  always  spoke  well 
of  Germany,  and  has  never  decried  its  military, 
industrial,  commercial  and  maritime  development. 
He  confessed  to  Mr.  Clodd  : 

The  learning  of  German  proved  a  good  thing  to  me 
when  my  friend  Borthwick,  of  the  Morning  Post,  sent 
me  as  correspondent  in  1866  on  the  outbreak  of  war 
between  Austria  and  Italy.2 

German  affairs  always  interested  him  greatly. 
His  novel,  The  Tragic  Comedians,  denotes  an  accu- 
rate knowledge  of  the  political  struggle  between 
Bismarck  and  Ferdinand  Lassalle.  Nothing  is  more 
natural  than  that  Harry  Richmond  should  adore  the 
Princess  Ottilia  ;  this  little  lady  has  all  the  charm 
of  a  twin-sister  of  Gretchen,  whom  one  would  have 
pictured  in  a  little  court  "  a  la  Stendhal."  3  Besides, 
to  give  fuller  recognition  to  the  terrible  frankness 

1  Cf.  Edward  Clodd,  article  mentioned.  i  Ibid. 

3  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond. 


HIS    LIFE  38 

of  the  German  University  professor  Meredith  makes 
Dr.  Julius  Von  Karsteg  pass  bitter  censure  on 
English  society.1  Some  German  characteristics  are 
ingeniously  portrayed  in  One  of  our  Conquerors.  All 
of  which  is  natural  enough,  for  romantic  Germany 
had  stamped  its  impress  deeply  upon  Meredith's 
imagination. 

Further,  it  is  without  doubt  to  the  Moravian 
Brothers  of  Neuwied,  that  George  Meredith  owes 
that  largeness  and  depth  of  view  which  override 
established  religious  prejudices.  In  fact,  the  little 
town  of  Neuwied  had  become  the  true  temple  of 
tolerance,  since  Prince  Alexander  of  Neuwied  in 
1762  had  unobtrusively  opened  it  to  various  mono- 
theistic sects.  Catholics,  Lutherans,  Jews,  Calvin- 
ists  and  Moravian  Brothers  used  to  mingle  in  perfect 
harmony  under  his  government.  There  prevailed 
in  this  spiritual  Eldorado  a  sweetness  of  manners, 
a  peace,  a  spirit  of  liberalism,  that  George  Meredith 
must  have  often  regretted  when  resident  in  his 
own  land. 

England,  at  heart  impervious  and  secretive,  dis- 
concerts even  the  English,  when  they  return  home 
after  a  long  absence.  Many  despair  of  becoming 
acclimatised  and  go  away  to  settle  in  France, 
Switzerland,  or  Italy.  For  example,  Robert  Brown- 
ing could  only  with  difficulty  endure  the  climate 

1  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond. 
D 


34  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

and  the  systems  of  England  ;  an  overpowering 
nostalgia  drew  him  periodically  to  the  sun-bathed 
hills  of  Tuscany,  to  the  orchards  and  vineyards  of 
Umbria.  This  sense  of  unrest  must  have  tormented 
to  a  still  greater  degree  the  sensitive  youth  whom 
foreign  hands  had  already  moulded.  The  customs 
and  indigenous  institutions  jarred  strangely  on  him 
even  at  the  age  of  fifteen. 

It  is  not  that  he  would  not  share  that  love  of 
fresh  air  with  his  comrades,  that  love  of  long 
walking  excursions,  of  games,  and  of  violent  exercise 
where  a  superabundant  energy  is  speedily  consumed  ; 
but,  superior  to  the  pleasures  of  his  age,  he  was 
morally  separated  from  his  vigorous  and  thoughtless 
schoolfellows.  Generally  speaking,  the  English  are 
not  precocious.  To  display  their  vigour,  and  their 
athletic  prowess,  is  above  all  other  things  their 
chief  aim.  Their  desire  to  think  only  becomes 
stimulated  in  later  life.  Besides,  young  Meredith 
brought  into  his  country  a  mind  nourished  with 
substantial  German  food,  and  a  desire  for  glory 
that  success  in  sport  could  not  assuage. 

In  1845  he  was  articled  to  a  lawyer,  but  he  turned 
to  journalism.  George  Meredith's  income  was  small 
indeed,  and  in  lack  of  money  he  resembled  Evan 
Harrington  ;  1  whilst  in  ambition  he  may  be  likened 
to  Captain  Beauchamp.2     Let  us  hear  him  further  : 

1  Cf.  Evan  Harrington. 

2  Cf.  Beau champ's  Career. 


HIS    LIFE  35 

When  I  came  back  from  German}',  I  found  that  the 
trustee  had  mismanaged  my  little  estate,  but  enough  was 
left  to  article  me  to  a  London  lawyer.  He  had  neither 
business  nor  morals,  and  I  had  no  stomach  for  the 
law,  so  I  drifted  into  journalism,  my  first  venture 
being  in  the  shape  of  a  leader  on  Lord  John  Manners, 
which  I  sent  to  the  Standard.  Very  little  came  of  that, 
but  I  got  work  on  one  of  your  Suffolk  papers,  The 
Ipswich  Journal,  which  kept  me  going.  .  .  .  Some  ghoul 
has  threatened  to  make  search  for  these  articles ;  may 
the  Commination  Service  be  thundered  in  his  ears.  .  .  } 

Lie  employed  his  leisure  hours  in  devouring  the 
poets,  both  ancient  and  modern.  All  were  read, 
from  ancient  Homer  down  to  the  elegiac  poets  of  the 
Lake  School.  Already  captivated  by  the  dramatists 
contemporary  with  Shakespeare,  he  did  not  neglect 
those  authors  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries,  who  wished  to  inaugurate  a  school  of 
English  comedy  :  Ben  Jonson,  Dryden,  Wycherley, 
Congreve  and  Sheridan — wThose  granddaughter 
served,  according  to  many,  as  the  prototype  of 
Diana  of  the  Crossways — and,  as  he  spoke  both 
French  and  German,  his  interests  were  of  wide 
extent.  According  to  his  whim,  he  passed  easily 
from  Carlyle  to  St.  Simon.  ...  So  many  questions, 
at  once  stirring  and  varied,  cannot  be  assimilated  all 
at  once  ;  but  they  stimulate  a  personality  which  is 
trying  to  find  itself. 

Let  us  not  pay  too  much  attention  to  Meredith's 

1  Edward  Clodd,  article  mentioned. 


36  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

first  attempts.  His  poem  Chillianwallah,  published 
on  the  7th  of  July,  1849,  by  Chambers's  Edinburgh 
Journal,  is  only  a  mild  patriotic  complaint,  very 
similar  to  many  others.  It  commemorates  with 
candour  the  battle  of  the  15th  of  January,  1849,  in 
which  the  Sikhs  killed  and  wounded  about  two 
thousand  four  hundred  officers  and  men  under 
General  Gough.  The  Punjaub,  at  that  time, 
yielded  no  more  success  to  men  of  letters  than  to 
soldiers.  It  has  remained  to  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling 
to  give  due  glory  to  colonial  warfare. 

Meredith  very  wisely  leaves  Cabul  and  Nepal  to 
Lord  Dalhousie,  Governor-General  of  British  India, 
and  sings  his  idylls  under  the  aspens  and  beeches  of 
Hampshire  and  Surrey. 

It  is  the  time  of  his  first  marriage,  when  he  is 
hardly  twenty-one  years  old.  He  marries  the  widow 
of  Lieutenant  Nicholls  ;  he  had  made  her  acquaint- 
ance through  her  brother  Edward,  the  son  of  Thomas 
Love  Peacock.  And  Mary  Ellen,  twelve  years 
later,  died  estranged  from  the  poet. 

One  day,  referring  to  this  period,  George  Meredith 
expressed  himself  thus  to  Mr.  Clodd  : 

No  sun  warmed  my  roof-tree  ;  the  marriage  was  a 
blunder  ;  she  was  nine  years  my  senior.  .  .  . 

An  irreparable  calamity  separated  them  for  ever. 
And  George  Meredith  lived  alone  with  his  child  ; 


HIS    LIFE  37 

that  little  Arthur  of  whom  he  was  so  proud  and  who 
was  to  die  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven. 

The  details  of  this  married  life  are  too  little 
known  to  allow  us  to  comment  upon  them.  It  is 
sufficient  for  us  to  know  that  George  Meredith's 
first  wife  was  extremely  clever,  lively,  cultivated 
and  attractive,  and  that  the  poet  never  spoke  of 
her  but  with  respect  and  admiration.  A  person,  in 
a  very  good  position  to  know  the  truth,  told  us  one 
day  :  "  The  married  couple  resembled  each  other  too 
much  to  live  in  harmony."  This  is,  without  doubt, 
the  most  just  explanation. 

George  Meredith  did  not  consider  the  question 
of  a  divorce,  but  imposed  upon  himself  some  con- 
fessions, some  examinations  of  conscience,  whose 
true  beauty  lies  contained  in  the  fifty  sonnets  of 
Modern  Love :  and  he  completed  that  cycle  after 
1861,  that  is  to  say  after  the  death  of  his  wife. 

Thus  was  a  deplorable  misunderstanding  trans- 
figured. Meredith  came  out  of  this  ordeal  matured, 
purified  by  grief,  with  a  fund  of  indulgence  and 
pity  towards  women  whom  he  considered  defence- 
less victims,  perfidiously  exposed  by  their  education, 
to  their  own  caprices  and  to  our  vilest  desires.  .  .  . 

His  first  attachment  gave  him  the  advantage  of 
the  intellectual  patronage  of  his  father-in-law. 
Thomas  Love  Peacock,  although  his  name  was  but 
little  known  in  France,  enjoyed,  nevertheless,  a  real 
renown.     An  essayist  and  a  novelist  of  merit,  he 


38  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

belonged  to  the  singular  and  brilliant  coterie,  prior 
to  the  Victorian  era,  which  numbered  among  its 
members,  Coleridge  and  Thomas  de  Quincey.  His 
influence  upon  Meredith  became  all  the  greater 
when  they  saw  each  other  almost  daily,  the  young 
writer  and  his  wife  having  settled  in  Surrey,  at 
Lower  Halliford,  adjoining  Shepperton,  where  his 
father-in-law  resided.  It  has  even  been  suggested 
that  Dr.  Middleton  in  The  Egoist  bore  resemblance 
to  one  of  Peacock's  characters — the  Dr.  Foliott  of 
Crotchet  Castle.  There  may  be  this  analogy,  but  this 
is  certain,  that  George  Meredith,  in  May,  1851,  dedi- 
cated his  first  verses  :  "To  Thomas  Love  Peacock, 
Esq.,  with  the  profound  admiration  and  affectionate 
respect  of  his  son-in-law." 

All  dawns  are  not  glorious,  and  no  one  would  be 
well  advised  to  compare  Meredith's  first  attempts 
with  those  of  Lord  Byron,  of  Keats,  of  Shelley,  or 
even  of  Swinburne.  It  is  quite  sufficient  that  the 
best  judges  of  that  time  have  listened  without 
fatigue  to  his  artless  songs.  Tennyson  declared  that 
he  could  never  forget  the  stanzas  of  Love  in  the  Valley. 
That  eclogue,  imperfect  at  that  time  and  unnoticed 
amongst  the  other  pastorals  which  were  weak  and 
rather  colourless,  had  already  touched  and  delighted 
some  readers,  many  years  before  it  haunted  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  and  "  intoxicated  him  like  wine." 
The  other  bucolics,  sylvan  or  pastoral,  were  equally 
pleasing  to  William  Michael  Rossetti,  who  received 


HIS    LIFE  39 

them  with  kindliness.1  As  for  Charles  Kingsley,  he 
submitted  the  little  volume  to  a  very  just  examina- 
tion, in  which  eulogy  is  associated  with  some  very 
fair  criticism.2  He  points  out  the  weakness  of  the 
rhythm,  and  the  descriptions  as  surcharged  with 
realistic  detail.  On  the  other  hand,  Kingsley  com- 
mends the  richness  and  uniqueness  of  inspiration, 
"  the  lively  seeds  of  poetry,  certain  to  germinate  and 
grow  "  ;  and  then  the  atmosphere  so  poetic  and 
pure,  and  so  transparent,  "  that  the  sweetness  of  the 
primordial  conception  is  therein  revealed  even 
through  the  dissonance."  ...  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
these  languorous  verses  but  faintly  foreshadow  the 
definite  and  almost  harsh  writer  of  The  Egoist. 

He  himself  was  by  no  means  elated  by  his 
success.  He  had  sacrificed  fifty  or  sixty  pounds  for 
the  publication  of  his  Poems.  Is  there  anything 
more  lucid  than  the  letter  written  by  him  in  July, 
.  1851,  to  Charles  Oilier,  the  editor  and  friend  of 
Lamb,  Keats  and  Shelley?  Listen  to  Meredith 
judging  his  own  booklet : 

I  prepared  myself,  when  I  published,  to  meet  with 
injustice  and  slight,  knowing  that  the  little  collection,  or 
rather  selection,  in  my  volume,  was  but  the  vanguard  of 
a  better  work  to  come  ;  and  knowing,  also,  that  the 
strictest  criticism  could  scarcely  be  more  unsparing 
than  myself  on  the  faults  that  are  freely  to  be  found  ; 
knowing,  lastly,  that  a  fresh  volume  (of  poetry)  is  with 

1  Critic,  November  15th,  1851. 

2  Fraser's  Magazine,  December,  1851. 


40  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

the  Press  a  marked  book.  .  .  .  The  poems  are  all  the 
work  of  extreme  youth,  and,  with  some  exceptions,  of 
labour.  They  will  not  live,  I  think,  but  they  will  serve 
their  purpose  in  making  known  my  name  to  those  who 
look  with  encouragement  upon  such  earnest  students  of 
nature  who  are  determined  to  persevere  until  they 
obtain  the  wisdom  and  inspiration  and  self-possession 
of  the  poet.1 


For  four  years  Meredith  husbanded  his  strength 
instead  of  wasting  his  time  upon  trifles.2  And  the 
first  prose  work  which  he  wrote  in  this  retirement 
became  a  masterpiece  at  once.  While  finishing  it 
at  Weybridge,  he  was  troubled  by  unpleasant  visits 
from  his  creditors.  At  last,  in  the  December3  of 
1855,  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat  appeared. 

Imagine  The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  prolonged 
for  a  thousand  and  one  nights  !  The  book  is  a  series 
of  tours  deforce  ;  Titania  herself  is  transported  to  the 
mythical  age  when  the  roc  hovered  above  the 
jasmines  of  Mosul.  The  delightful  fairy  ventures 
among  the  barbers,  the  sultans,  the  viziers,  the 
odalisques,  and  among  innumerable  winged  genii, 
now  propitious  now  wrathful,  even  to  the  time  when 
the  reformer  Shibli  Bagarag,  a  kind  of  new  St.  George, 
has  conquered  the  dragon,  Shagpat.  .  .  . 

1  Letter  mentioned  by  Mr.  Walter  Jerrold,  George  Meredith, 
pp.  7-8. 

2  We  know  that  during  this  period  only  a  very  small  number 
of  poems  appeared,  published  by  The  Leader,  Fraser's  Magazine, 
and  Household  Words. 

3  The  title  gives  the  date  as  1856. 


HIS    LIFE  41 

A  young  northerner  masquerading  as  Schehera- 
zade, runs  the  risk  of  frittering  away  his  ideas  in 
frivolous  arabesques,  if  he  does  not  bridle  his 
imagination.  Repelled  by  an  excess  of  embellish- 
ment, we  would  place  the  advantages  of  a  true 
neo-classic  training  much  above  these  pretentious 
devices.  Exoticism  amuses  us  only  for  a  moment. 
In  fact,  to  hold  our  attention,  there  must  be  some 
reserve  even  in  abandonment,  some  propriety  even 
in  exuberance,  a  real  subject  rather  than  a  medley  of 
episodes  and  adventures ;  and,  above  all,  that  triple 
simultaneous  appeal  to  the  flesh,  the  mind  and  the 
soul,  by  which  Meredith's  work  has  been  character- 
ised since  the  appearance  of  Shagpat. 

From  the  first  George  Eliot  marvelled  at  such 
a  harmony  of  qualities.  She,  who  could  not  imagine 
a  language  so  radiant,  such  a  profusion  of  pictur- 
esqueness  and  colour,  was  dazzled  as  though  she  had 
penetrated  into  the  garden  of  the  Hesperides. 

"  George  Eliot,"  said  Meredith  roguishly,  "  had 
the  heart  of  Sappho.  But  the  face  with  its  long  nose, 
the  protruding  teeth  as  of  the  Apocalyptic  horse, 
betrayed  animality.  .  .  ."  1 

George  Eliot's  enthusiasm  was  outpoured  in  an 
article  in  which  she  acclaims  the  new  work  of 
genius,  "  precious  as  an  apple  tree  among  the  trees 
of  the  forest."  2    The  comparison  did  not  soften  the 

1  Edward  Clodd,  article  mentioned. 

2  Leader,  5th  of  January,  1856. 


42  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

hearts  of  book-lovers.  And  as  the  apple  tree  did 
not  produce  apples  of  gold,  it  was  put  up  for  sale 
by  the  angry  and  discomfited  publisher.  This  action 
did  not  prevent  another  firm  x  from  printing  Farina 
in  the  following  year,  1857.  This  little  Gothic  tale 
suggests  a  mixture  of  eau-de-Cologne  and  Rhine 
wine.  (Abominable  mixture  for  a  French  reader !) 
It  encountered  no  better  a  fate  ;  nor  is  this  to  be 
regretted,  as  it  did  not  deserve  one. 

In  a  word,  despite  certain  signs  of  approval  which 
did  not  escape  Meredith's  notice,  the  public  refused 
to  thaw.  Its  coldness  with  regard  to  an  allegory  as 
dull  as  Farina  was  justified  ;  towards  the  Shaving 
of  Shagpat  the  aloofness  could  be  still  explained,  for 
everyone  is  not  of  the  kind  to  be  pleased  with  an 
Oriental  parable.  But  indifference  can  no  longer  be 
separated  from  foolishness,  when  The  Ordeal  of 
Richard  Fcverel  (1859)  met  with  disdain.  Of  that 
piece  of  adorable  fiction,  that  miracle  of  ingenuity 
and  of  science,  James  Thomson  and  R.  L.  Stevenson 
could  only  speak  with  tearful  fervour.  It  was 
written  with  cheerful  rapidity  in  a  single  year,  for 
the  most  part  at  7  Hobury  Street,  Chelsea. 

Shortly  after  the  publication  of  Richard  Feverel, 
the  publishers  received  a  letter  from  Carlyle,  who 
desired  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  author. 
Let  the  latter  speak  : 

1  Smith,  Elder  and  Co. 


HIS    LIFE  43 

I  paid  him  a  visit.  He  told  me  that  his  wife,  at  first 
hostile  to  my  Feverel,  had  flung  it  upon  the  ground,  but 
soon  picked  it  up  again  and  began  to  read  loudly  certain 
passages.  Then  Carlyle  said  :  "  This  man  is  no  fool !  " 
and  they  persevered  with  the  book  to  the  end.  He  told 
me  that  I  had  in  me  the  making  of  a  historian.  I  replied 
that  as  so  much  fiction  enters  into  history,  I  preferred  to 
confine  myself  to  my  novels.  .  .  . 

The  Press,  however,  did  not  receive  Richard 
Feverel  with  favour.  Not  that  the  envious  had 
organised  "  the  conspiracy  of  silence  "  ;  but  it 
seemed  that  contemporaries  feared  to  compromise 
themselves.  .  .  .  The  critic  of  The  Times,  not 
altogether  withholding  his  sympathy,  made  some 
cautious  remarks  about  the  conclusion  and  the 
philosophical  tendency  of  the  work.  And  why  ? 
.  .  .  Because  Meredith  had  aimed  a  mortal  blow  at 
the  educational  methods  of  his  day.  The  disastrous 
system  of  Sir  Austin  Feverel  was  little  more  than 
the  educational  system  of  the  English  upper  classes 
carried  to  logical  extremes.  "  Meddle  not  with  the 
hatchet  !  "  cried  Charles  I  upon  the  scaffold.  .  .  . 
Authors  were  allowed  occasional  flights  of  fancy  ; 
but  when  they  begin  to  have  ideas,  and  particularly 
subversive  ones,  they  can  hardly  be  tolerated.  Not 
clergymen  alone  thundered  against  the  disturbing 
volume,  and  banished  it  from  their  parochial 
libraries,  but  even  Mudie's  library  refused  point- 
blank  to  place  it  upon  sale,  that  it  might  not  offend 
the  modesty  of  its  patrons. 


44  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

The  ice  was  not  yet  broken,  and  Meredith  could 
not  succeed  in  conciliating  the  multitude.  There- 
fore, seeing  that  his  novels  paid  him  no  better  than 
his  poems,  he  returned  to  journalism.  He  ground 
out  articles  for  the  Ipswich  Journal,  the  Standard, 
the  Morning  Post,  the  Manchester  Guardian.  Dis- 
heartening work,  but  then  he  did  not  dread  having 
plenty  to  do,  and  almost  revelled  in  being  at  grips 
with  that  terrible  "  question  of  money  "  which,  more 
than  all  other  touchstones,  is  the  test  of  conscience 
and  talent.  ...  He  saw  in  himself  the  struggle  of 
two  ideals,  one  of  material,  the  other  of  moral  well- 
being,  and  in  Evan  Harrington,  1861,  this  antagon- 
ism was  to  end  in  the  triumph  of  the  spirit  of 
sacrifice. 

This  novel  Once  a  Week  deigned  to  print,  as  being 
on  the  whole  admirable  for  its  readers.  But  Mere- 
dith still  had  an  irreverent  habit  of  juggling  with 
the  various  social  classes  and  of  mixing  them  up 
pell-mell,  which  scared  good  folk.  The  lovers  of 
Dickens,  Thackeray  and  George  Eliot  turned 
elsewhere,  and  the  author,  in  order  not  to  perish  of 
hunger,  resolved  to  become  reader  to  an  old  blind 
lady,  and  to  confine  himself  more  closely  to  country 
life. 

He  had  no  cause  to  regret  this  step.  Sir  William 
Hardman,  having  visited  him  at  Copsham  Cottage, 
near  Esher,  in  Surrey,  was  astounded  and  charmed 
with  his  sprightlincss,  and  became  his  fast  friend. 


HIS    LIFE  45 

With  the  sun  upon  the  glades,  and  the  odour  of  wet, 
green  grass,  and  sometimes  a  chat  or  a  walk  with 
two  or  three  intellectual  companions,  Maurice 
FitzGerald,  Leslie  Stephen,  or  Sir  Francis  C. 
Burnand,  Meredith  wished  for  no  other  pleasures. 
And  the  solitudes  suited  him  admirably,  for  it  was 
in  a  humble  country  cottage  that  he  wrote  and 
prepared  for  the  Press  the  sonnets  of  Modern 
Love  (1862). 

These  new  poems  seemed  likely  to  rot  upon  the 
shelves  of  the  book-shops,  when  a  bilious  critic 
(blessed  be  his  memory  !),  seeking  a  dispute  with 
Meredith,  brought  them  to  light.  Under  the  pretext 
that  Modern  Love  dealt  with  conjugal  infidelity 
without  suggesting  any  remedy,  he  severely  repri- 
manded the  poet  upon  his  lack  of  religious  con- 
viction. .  .  .  Fifteen  days  later,  in  the  same 
review  (Spectator,  the  7th  of  June,  1862),  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne  replied  with  a  warmth,  a  passion, 
a  fervour,  a  brilliant  fire  of  eloquence  which  makes 
his  counter-attack  a  model  of  dialectic.  This 
vindication,  the  most  vehement  that  ever  one  great 
poet  had  dedicated  to  another,  caused  an  enormous 
sensation.  Swinburne  was  already  celebrated  as 
much  for  his  gorgeous  imagery  as  for  his  contempt 
of  moral  conventions  ;  his  protege  from  that  time 
onward  excited  general  interest. 

The  two  writers  vowed  a  friendship  which  time 
failed  to  break.    They  were  to  live  for  fifty  years 


46  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

and  to  die  within  a  few  weeks  of  each  other  in  the 
spring  of  1909.  The  publication  of  Evan  Harrington 
by  Once  a  Week  associated  George  Meredith  with  the 
most  notable  contributors  of  the  paper  :  Harriet 
Martineau,  Millais,  Swinburne  and  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti.  The  latter,  in  his  pen  and  ink  drawing  of 
Mary  Magdalene  at  the  gate  of  Simon  the  Pharisee, 
gave  to  his  Christ  the  likeness  of  his  new  friend, 
and  it  is  one  of  the  earliest  portraits  that  we  have 
of  Meredith.  Later,  when  Rossetti  had  lost  his 
wife,  in  February,  1862,  the  Pre-Raphaelite  painter- 
poet  and  his  brother  William  Michael,  with  Swin- 
burne and  George  Meredith,  rented  Queen's  House, 
Chelsea  (16  Cheyne  Walk). 

Each  of  the  tenants  had  his  particular  room  for 
study.  The  dining-room  was  used  in  common. 
But  the  delicate  poet  of  The  Blessed  Damozel 
unfortunately  shocked  George  Meredith  by  his 
enormous  appetite.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  Dante 
Gabriel  swallowing  five  poached  eggs  for  breakfast, 
having  previously  placed  them  upon  five  slices  of 
bacon  !  .  .  .  "  Yes,  I  protested  against  this  habit," 
declared  George  Meredith  in  January,  1909  ;  "  but 
it  injured  the  health  of  my  friend  more  than  our 
friendship."  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  even  upon  the  con- 
fession of  their  companion  William  Michael  Rossetti, 
there  never  existed  between  these  two  men  that 
absolute  cordiality  which  suggests  and  facilitates 
mutual  concessions.    In  proportion  as  the  differences 


HIS    LIFE  47 

were  more  pronounced,  Meredith's  visits  at  Chelsea 
became  more  rare  and  brief.  A  lasting  agreement 
between  artists  of  volcanic  personality  would  have 
been  a  supernatural  phenomenon.  George  Meredith 
was  the  first  to  go,  although  he  hardly  slept  once  at 
Queen's  House,  considering  it  merely  a  resting-place 
where  it  was  exceedingly  pleasant  to  spend  some 
hours  in  company  with  excellent  writers  and  good 
fellows  during  his  visits  to  London.  Soon  after, 
it  was  Swinburne's  turn.  Thus  was  broken  up  a 
coterie  which  has  remained  celebrated  in  the  annals 
of  English  literature. 

This  separation  did  not  result  in  a  quarrel,  as 
Meredith  could  give  sufficient  reasons  for  absenting 
himself  from  the  amiable  Pre-Raphaelite  company. 
A  journey  to  Rouen  and  Paris,  undertaken  in  the 
summer  of  1863  with  Sir  William  Hardman, 
furnished  the  best  pretext.  Sir  William  has  re- 
counted their  nocturnal  rambles  in  the  Champs- 
£lysees,  their  fine  suppers  at  the  Trois  Freres,  or  at 
Vefour's,  and  their  visit  to  Versailles.  Meredith 
went  on  to  Grenoble,  and  from  there  through 
Chamounix  into  Switzerland. 

It  was  not,  however,  these  wanderings  which 
resulted  in  the  meeting  with  his  second  wife,  and  the 
twenty  years  of  domestic  happiness  which  followed 
upon  their  marriage.  Miss  Marie  Vulliamy  lived 
with  her  parents  at  Mickleham,  in  the  neighbourhood 


48  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

of  Esher,  where  George  Meredith  had  for  some  time 
resided.  She  belonged  to  an  old  French  Huguenot 
family,  which  had  originally  emigrated  to  Geneva, 
and  then  settled  in  England.  She  was  beautiful,  as 
is  shown  in  the  fine  portrait  by  Frederick  A.  Sandys, 
painted  in  1864.  Passionately  attached  to  her 
husband,  active,  clear-sighted,  and  as  economical  as 
their  means  demanded,  the  second  Mrs.  Meredith 
also  found  time  to  translate  several  books,  notably 
the  Life  of  Cavour. 

The  year  1864  was  devoted  to  the  elaboration  of 
Emilia  in  England.  This  sweet  and  supple  narrative 
did  not  exceed  the  framework  of  an  ordinary  novel. 
It  tells  the  history  of  a  young  Italian  prima  donna, 
endowed  with  a  ravishing  voice  and  with  the  most 
passionate  patriotism.  Mr.  E.  D.  Forques  undertook 
a  French  translation  for  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes, 
under  the  title  of  Sandra  Belloni.1  This  new  title 
succeeded  in  definitely  supplanting  the  first.  But 
George  Meredith  owed  nothing  else  to  his  insipid 
translator,  for  the  French  version  of  Sandra  Belloni 
flattered  the  original  no  more  than  the  similar 
mutilation  of  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Fever  el. 2 

Meredith  became  so  enamoured  of  the  cause  of 
Italian  independence,  that  he  determined  upon  a 
completion  of  Sandra  Belloni.  But,  whilst  he  was 
judging  the   Italian   reformers   according   to   their 

1  See  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  of  15th  of  November,  1st 
and  15th  of  December. 

2  Ibid.,  15th  of  April,  ist  and  15th  of  May,  1865, 


HIS    LIFE  49 

deeds,  he  created  Rhoda  Fleming  (1865),  the  most 
dramatic  of  his  romances,  and  that  which  could, 
most  easily,  be  adapted  to  the  stage.  The  fascination 
of  plot  and  treatment — the  story  is  of  a  poor  girl, 
abandoned  by  her  lover,  who  marries  a  despicable 
man  in  order  to  appease  her  Puritan  family — betrays 
the  influence  of  Dickens,  already  noticeable  in  the 
humorous  interludes  of  Richard  Fevcrel  and  Evan 
Harrington.  But  Meredith's  fierce  pessimism  would 
have  appalled  Charles  Dickens.  And  the  tone,  the 
style,  the  innumerable  metaphysical  digressions, 
social  and  psychological,  of  Rhoda  Fleming  show 
clearly  that  the  difference  between  the  two  novelists 
is  immense. 

In  the  meanwhile,  in  March,  1866,  General  Govone 
signed  at  Berlin  a  defensive  and  offensive  alliance, 
the  worth  of  which  was  made  evident  at  the  end  of 
June,  when  Prussia  and  Italy  simultaneously 
attacked  Austria.  The  Morning  Post  sent  George 
Meredith  into  Italy  as  its  war  correspondent.1  It  is 
true  that  operations  were  not  carried  out  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Mincio.  Archduke  Albert  upon  land, 
and  Admiral  Tegethof  in  the  Adriatic,  repelled  the 
Italians,  and  thus  Meredith  had  no  opportunity  of 
seeing  a  pitched  battle.  He  hardly  smelt  the  powder, 
even  if  he  heard  the  grape-shot.  But  he  was  com- 
pensated by  his  wanderings  among  the  old  stones 
of  Venice.    During  these  leisure  hours  afforded  him 

1  Consult  the  volume  of  the  Memorial  Edition. 
E 


50  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

by  the  revolutionary  and  warlike  times,  he  studied 
the  provinces  of  Milan  and  Bergamo  ;  he  visited  the 
places  and  the  scenes  which  are  so  well  represented 
in  Vittoria,  and  in  the  first  chapters  of  Beau- 
champ's  Career.  And  the  warm  colouring  of  his 
pictures  he  owes,  no  doubt,  to  this  country,  of 
sunlit  seas  and  distant  gulfs  of  light. 

However,  the  Fortnightly  Review  published  in 
serial  form  the  adventures  of  Vittoria  (15th  January, 
1866,  to  1st  December,  1866),  the  definite  text  of 
which  was  only  agreed  upon  in  1867.  This  epilogue, 
somewhat  detached  in  treatment,  was  not  equal  to 
Sandra  Belloni  ;  nevertheless,  it  succeeded  better, 
because  the  actuality  of  the  matter  and  its  pictur- 
esque romanticism  allured  the  public.  The  maga- 
zines and  the  reviews,  after  this  measure  of  success, 
no  longer  refused  to  accept  George  Meredith's 
novels. x  It  was  at  this  time  that  Mr.  John  Morley, 2 
about  to  sail  for  America,  entrusted  for  a  while  the 
editorship  of  the  Fortnightly  Review  to  his  friend 
George  Meredith. 

Books  of  every  kind  claimed  his  attention.  He 
even  read  and  annotated  manuscripts  woefully 
disfigured  by  corrections  and  erasures,  for  the 
publishers,  Messrs.  Chapman  and  Hall.  He  faith- 
fully fulfilled  for  this  firm  the  post  of  reader.  It  was 
in  the  capacity  of  "  reader  "  that  he  had  the  satis- 
faction of  discovering,  of  assisting  with  his  advice, 

1  The  Egoist  is  the  exception.       *  To-day  Viscount  Morley. 


HIS    LIFE  51 

and  revealing  to  England,  such  writers  as  Thomas 
Hardy  and  George  Gissing.  He  declared  to  his 
contemporaries  : 

Whenever  I  give  honest  praise,  I  will  not  stint  it, 
although  I  remind  those  who  hunger  after  it  that,  if  they 
will  be  drenched  with  honey,  they  must  expect  the 
wasps.  .  .  ,x 

These  literary  duties  did  not  thwart  a  project 
which  had  occupied  his  mind  for  some  time.  The 
Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond  was  offered,  in  1871, 
to  lovers  of  piquant  anecdote.  Then  appeared  with 
an  unforgettable  prominence,  seated  upon  a  horse 
of  bronze,  upon  which  he  counterfeited  the  statue 
of  a  margrave,  booted  and  spurred,  like  a  Marl- 
borough or  a  Prince  Eugene,  that  astounding 
Richmond  Roy,  prince  of  fine  talkers,  who  out- 
rivals the  most  hardened  knave,  from  Smerdis  the 
Magian  down  to  our  "  soi-disant  "  Louis  XVII. 

The  bewilderment  and  stupefaction  had  not 
ceased,  when  Meredith  performed  one  of  his  most 
generous  acts.  He  uttered  that  great  cry  of  love  and 
pity,  the  ode  entitled  France,  December,  1870,  at  the 
time  when  the  greater  portion  of  his  fellow-country- 
men were  glorying  in  the  victories  reported  by  the 
Germans  in  Paris.  His  passionate  veneration  for 
the  "  Mother  of  Nations  "  became  the  prevailing 
topic  in  England.  He  gained  a  name  for  eccentricity, 
but  for  nothing  more. 

1  Edward  Clodd,  article  mentioned 


52  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

As  for  France,  she  had  her  own  wounds  to  dress, 
and  bestowed  no  thought  upon  that  funeral  wreath. 
.  .  .  Besides,  Meredith  returned  as  soon  as  possible 
to  his  own  country.  Having  passed  his  fortieth 
year,  he  maintained  the  right,  and  assumed  the  task 
of  judging  politics.  Facts  noticed  in  1868,  when 
his  excellent  friend,  Admiral  Augustus  Maxse,  offered 
himself  as  a  Radical  candidate  for  Southampton, 
gradually  suggested  Beauchamp's  Career  (1876)  to 
him.  This  book  does  not  advocate  a  new  Utopia. 
It  is  not  a  public  placard  notifying  some  ideal 
Eldorado  in  accordance  with  the  prevailing  taste 
of  the  day.  Clearly,  concisely,  the  champion  of  the 
Liberal  cause  teaches  us  by  his  own  irrational, 
chivalrous  and  symbolical  death  what  it  costs  to 
fight  for  the  people  :  he  is  drowned  in  endeavouring 
to  save  a  poor  child  which  has  fallen  into  the  river. 
...  A  corpse  upon  the  bank  ;  near  by  a  squalling 
brat,  digging  its  little  fists  into  its  eyes ;  that  is  all 
that  remains  of  Commander  Beauchamp  !  .  .  . 

Meredith  did  not  shrink  from  sudden  changes. 
To  this  sad  story  succeeded,  without  any  period  of 
transition,  the  memorable  lecture,  entitled  later, 
An  Essay  upon  Comedy.  When  he  enjoined  upon 
his  audience  to  assimilate  the  wisdom  of  the  orator, 
he  somewhat  scared  the  company  which  assembled 
in  large  numbers  at  the  "  London  Institution  "  on 
the  1st  of  February,  1877.  But  countenances 
became    brighter    at    the    sight    of    an    unlucky 


HIS    LIFE  53 

Arab,   who   had   wandered   into   the   hall  by  mis- 
take. 

The  spirit  of  comedy,  analysed  in  so  masterly  a 
manner  in  that  lecturers  recognisable,  now  by  itself, 
now  combined  with  the  spirit  of  tragedy,  in  three 
little  stories  of  the  same  period  :  The  House  on  the 
Beach  (1877),  The  Case  of  General  Ople  and  Lady 
Camper  (1877)  and  The  Tale  of  Chloe  (1879).  These 
sketches  predict  a  more  important  undertaking, 
justly  proportionate  to  the  greatness  of  the  subject 
and  to  the  impression  it  was  to  produce.  Written 
in  five  months,  with  inconceivable  speed,  this  work 
was  The  Egoist  (1879),  a  comedy  in  narrative 
form. 

It  is  not  worth  while  to  discuss  whether  The  Egoist 
is  Meredith's  masterpiece.  Opinions  differ.  They 
vary  so  much  according  to  taste  that  it  seems  super- 
fluous to  make  an  estimate.  Is  there  not  sufficient 
in  Meredith  to  satisfy  all  tastes  ?  .  .  .  But  what 
assures  a  place  of  honour  to  The  Egoist  is  that  there 
has  been  expressed  by  Meredith  the  meaning  and 
unity  of  his  apparently  heterogeneous  production, 
and  that  it  has  kindled  the  enthusiasm  of  those  men 
of  letters  least  likely  to  yield  to  an  infatuation. 
Like  the  legendary  kings,  Gaspar,  Melchior  and 
Balthazar,  three  magi  of  Great  Britain,  James 
Thomson,  William  Ernest  Henley,  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  saw  the  wonderful  star,  and  followed  it 
to  the  chalet  at  Box  Hill.     Stevenson,  above  all, 


54  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

having  read  The  Egoist  four  times,  exclaimed  with 
his  customary  vivacity  :  "I  am  convinced  more 
and  more  that  Meredith  is  destined  to  be  im- 
mortal !  "  .  .  . 

In  fact,  after  The  Egoist,  Meredith  could  add 
nothing  to  his  glory,  and  it  was  in  giving  counsel 
that  he  employed  his  old  age.  "  Ah  !  "  he  then 
exclaimed,  "  if  I  had  been  able  to  bask  in  the  sun- 
shine of  success  in  my  youth,  what  inspiration  I 
should  have  received  towards  better  work  !  "  .  .  . 
But  it  was  now  too  late.  .  .  . 

The  Tragic  Comedians  bore  as  sub-heading  this 
title  :  "A  study  in  a  well-known  story."  Meredith, 
in  1879,  had  read  a  book  by  Helene  von  Racowitza, 
formerly  Helene  von  Donniges,  entitled,  My  Rela- 
tions with  Ferdinand  Lassalle,  and  he  forthwith 
improvised  a  clever  variation  of  this  popular  German 
theme.  Under  the  disguise  of  relating  an  account 
of  the  love  and  death  of  the  Socialist  demagogue,  he 
advanced  the  theory  that  a  man  of  genius  cannot, 
without  peril,  confide  in  a  woman,  however  intelli- 
gent, so  long  as  our  system  of  education  tends  to 
weaken  the  will-power  of  women. 

This  theory  he  dearly  cherished.  After  having 
given  lyric  expression  to  his  love  of  nature  in  the 
Poems  of  the  Joy  of  Earth  (1883),  he  once  more 
attacked  the  problem  of  the  education  of  women  in 
Diana  of  the  Crossways  (1885).  Curiously  enough, 
this  novel  furnished  Meredith  with  those  great  allies 


HIS    LIFE  55 

which  he  had  always  disdained — the  circulating 
libraries.  Their  subscribers  identified  the  character 
of  Diana  Warwick  with  Mrs.  Norton,  Sheridan's  own 
granddaughter.  This  lady  was  famous  in  1840,  for 
her  spirit,  her  beauty  and  her  much-discussed 
Platonic  relations  with  the  Prime  Minister,  Lord 
Melbourne.  At  the  time  of  Robert  Peel's  adherence 
to  the  cause  of  Free  Trade,  she  was  accused  of  having 
sold  to  The  Times  that  secret  of  State,  entrusted  to 
her  by  a  friend.  .  .  .  Meredith  himself  contradicted 
it.  But  slander  refused  to  be  disarmed.  Calumny 
always  leaves  something  behind,  and  that  is  the 
reason  why  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  that  novel  of  pure 
psychology,  finds  favour  in  the  eyes  of  the  general 
reader,  despite  its  bewildering  preface,  its  errors  of 
composition  and  its  enormous  improbabilities. 

Disgusted  with  the  scandal  that  he  had  provoked, 
despite  himself,  and  nevertheless  desiring  to  turn 
this  period  of  favour  to  profit  in  order  to  put  before 
his  countrymen  certain  essential  truths,  Meredith 
published,  in  quick  succession,  Ballads  of  the  Tragic 
Life  (1887)  and  A  Reading  of  Earth  (1888). 

He  had  lost  his  second  wife  on  the  17th  of 
September,  1885.  Although  Meredith  was  always 
restrained  in  speaking  of  his  sorrows,  a  magnificent 
poem  of  melancholy,  A  Faith  on  Trial,  reveals  to  us 
how  bravely  he  tried  to  repress  his  grief  through 
respect  for  the  laws  of  Nature. 

Then,  after  a  long  silence,  always  beset  by  the 


56  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

burning  question  of  feminism,  he  again  essayed  to 
fathom  it  in  One  of  our  Conquerors  (1891),  Lord 
Ormont  and  his  Aminta  (1894)  and  The  Amazing 
Marriage  (1895).  In  this  last  novel,  in  which 
Meredith  regains  his  lightness  of  touch,  the  roguish 
charms  of  his  youth  make  strange  contrast  with  the 
pathetic  tone  of  his  old  age. 

Although  the  source  of  romantic  inspiration  was 
still  brisk  and  active,  he  feared  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  critics,  bewildered  by  his  recent  boldness, 
would  be  unable  to  conceal  to  the  end  their  em- 
barrassment and  their  fatigue.  .  .  .  His  portfolio 
closed  upon  some  unfinished  manuscripts  of 
earlier  date.  Among  them  were  Celt  and  Saxon,  the 
novel  which  the  Fortnightly  Review  was  the  first  to 
offer  us,  and  the  unpublished  comedy,  The  Senti- 
mentalists. 

Unlike  those  butterflies  of  literature,  always  fasci- 
nated by  the  footlights,  he  did  not  envy  dramatic 
authors  their  loud-sounding  victories.  He  did  not 
refuse  permission  for  the  tragi-comic  misadventures 
of  his  immortal  Egoist  to  be  seen  on  the  stage,  but 
he  discouraged  those  who  dreamed  of  dramatising 
Evan  Harrington. 

"  And  the  part  of  Countess  de  Saldar,"  he 
demanded  coldly,  "  to  what  English  actress  would 
you  entrust  her  part  ?  " 

If  Meredith  has  little  taste  for  play-writing,  even 
as  a  relaxation  from  the  novel,  it  is  because  he 


HIS    LIFE  57 

inclines  to  the  didactic  style,  making  free  use  of  the 
abundant  stores  of  wisdom  and  eloquence  which  he 
has  housed  during  fifty  years.  Like  Victor  Hugo,  he 
publishes  his  "  contemplations." 

After  The  Empty  Purse  (1892),  an  accusation  in 
verse  against  the  principles  of  heirship  ;  after  the 
superb  Odes  in  Contribution  to  the  Song  of  French 
History  (1898),  in  which  the  hymn  France,  December, 
1870,  holds  the  heart  like  another  Gloria  Victis  ; 
after  A  Reading  of  Life  (1901),  which  we  believe  to 
be  his  poetic  testament,  the  patriot,  the  thinker, 
the  poet,  sends  us  from  beyond  the  tomb  as  a  last 
message,  the  sheaf  of  his  Last  Poems  (1909). 

George  Meredith,  by  reason  of  his  love  of  retire- 
ment and  solitude,  had  confined  himself  for  some  time 
to  the  country.  But  as  his  love  of  nature  was  neither 
exclusive  nor  superstitious,  he  fled  not  from  mankind. 

"  Earth  was  not  Earth  before  her  sons  appeared."  * 
In  town,  as  in  the  woods,  he  felt  equally  near  to 
Nature.  As  long  as  his  strength  would  allow,  he  used 
to  travel  from  time  to  time  to  London.  Between  the 
years  1880  and  1890,  when  the  Irish  agitation  was 
a  burning  question,  he  often  sat  in  the  Strangers' 
Gallery.  His  mother  was  of  Irish  birth.  "Often," 
says  Mr.  Walter  Jerrold,2  referring  to  the  Parnell 
Trial,  "  more  than  one  of  the  leading  advocates  in 
that  historic  trial  was  moved  for  a  moment  into 

1  Appreciation  sonnet.  2  George  Meredith,  p.  25. 


58  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

forgetfulness  of  the  task  in  which  he  was  engaged 
by  the  news  that  George  Meredith  was  sitting  just 
behind  him.  ..." 

Not  that  Meredith  delighted  in  controversial 
politics ;  on  the  contrary,  he  avoided  them.  .  .  .  But 
he  never  refused  the  influence  of  his  eloquence  to 
those  who  were  oppressed.  Glance  at  his  latest 
words  !  What  are  they  ?  Declamations  in  favour 
of  Ireland  and  of  Russian  liberty.  Neither  did  he 
ever  hesitate  to  place  his  long  experience  at  the 
service  of  his  country. 

At  intervals  he  would  dedicate  a  touching  message 
to  some  illustrious  dead  :  Gordon,  Robert  Browning, 
Queen  Victoria  and,  last  of  all,  to  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  ...  Or  he  would  commemorate  by  a 
poem  the  battle  of  Trafalgar,  the  anniversary  of 
Nelson,  or  Garibaldi,  or  the  centenary  of  Milton, 
whom  he  had  regarded  as  the  supreme  master  of 
blank  verse,  and  whom  he  revered  almost  as  a  saint. 

•  • 

After  Browning  and  Tennyson,  Meredith  reigned 
in  his  turn,  but  without  governing  as  patriarch  in 
the  literary  world.  But  everyone  knew  his  home  : 
Box  Hill,  in  that  merry  county  of  Surrey,  whose 
woodlands  and  pastures  he  had  loved  for  so  long — 
hard  by  the  inn  where  Keats  wrote  his  Endymion  in 
1817 — and  the  hope  of  being  one  day  admitted  to 
Flint  Cottage  was  a  perpetual  lure  to  young 
writers.  .  .  . 


HIS    LIFE  59 

Prophet  and  apostle,  he  lived  at  Box  Hill  as  John 
the  Baptist  lived  in  the  desert,  as  John  the  Evange- 
list at  Patmos.  Some  favoured  few  listened  to  his 
words.  His  political  poems  themselves  were  not 
those  easy  refrains,  after  the  manner  of  Beranger, 
which  the  crowd  catches  up  in  chorus.  Less  abstract , 
less  ambiguous,  they  would  have  called  forth  charges 
of  a  most  serious  character.  Nothing  proves  this 
better  than  the  anxiety  which  was  caused  throughout 
the  whole  of  the  British  Empire,  on  account  of  an 
interview  on  the  subject  of  marriage,  published  in 
the  Daily  Mail  of  the  24th  of  September,  1904.  But 
Meredith  was  hardly  serious  in  proposing  a  tem- 
porary union  to  those  who  intended  to  marry.  The 
contracting  parties  would  sign  for  a  period  of  three, 
six,  nine  years,  renewable  at  the  end  of  each  term, 
on  the  condition  that  the  State  would  legally 
recognise  the  offspring.  .  .  . 

Without  being  prodigal  in  his  correspondence,  he 
consented  towards  the  end  of  his  life  to  comment 
upon  his  works.  We  are  cognizant  of  his  correspon- 
dence by  letter  with  the  poet  James  Thomson.  An 
exceedingly  interesting  letter  which  he  wrote  on  the 
22nd  of  July,  1887,  to  an  American  admirer  has  often 
been  reprinted.  But  the  smallest  message  from 
Meredith  always  had  a  touch  of  charm  ;  the  brief 
note,  entirely  charged  with  matter,  attested  his 
mastery  of  the  art  of  concentration. 

Eager  excitement  on  all  sides  at  these  periodical 


60  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

disclosures  ;  the  value  of  his  work  indisputably 
admitted  by  the  majority  of  English  people  ;  his 
election  to  the  presidency  of  the  Society  of  Authors 
after  the  death  of  Tennyson  in  1892  ;  the  collection 
of  his  complete  works  undertaken  by  the  publishing 
house  of  Constable  and  Co. ;  a  congratulatory 
address,  countersigned  by  thirty  famous  writers,  in 
1898,  upon  the  occasion  of  his  seventieth  birthday  ; 
a  visit  from  the  members  of  "White  Friars  Club" 
to  Flint  Cottage  in  1900  ;  a  special  messenger  from 
Edward  VII,  Sir  Arthur  Ellis,  bringing  to  the 
paralysed  poet  the  insignia  of  the  Order  of  Merit, 
despite  the  statute  which  demanded  that  new 
recipients  must  receive  their  investiture  at  the  hands 
of  royalty  itself — these  tardy  reparations  in  some 
degree  forestalled  the  solemn  thanksgiving  of  1908. 
.  .  .  Then  England  and  America  resounded  with 
unanimous  acclamations  in  honour  of  the  octo- 
genarian invalid,  whose  glory  was  the  result  but  of 
his  lofty  genius.  And  some  distinguished  French- 
men, Messrs.  Anatole  France,  Paul  Bourget,  Jules 
Lemaitre,  Paul  Hervieu,  Alfred  Mezieres,  Gaston 
Boissier,  Alexandre  Ribot  and  Rene  Bazin,  repre- 
sented their  grateful  country  in  this  message. 

But  it  is  a  long  while  since  that  trying  time  when 
Henley,  Thomson,  Stevenson  and  J.  M.  Barrie 
championed  the  man  whom  they  adored.  .  .  . 
There  is  now  a  swarm  of  exegetes,  annotators  and 
philologists  claiming  to  be  authorities  upon  Mere- 


HIS    LIFE  61 

dith's  poems  and  novels.  Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne, 
in  1890,  dedicated  to  Meredith  a  poem  which, 
although  somewhat  confused,  glowed  with  youthful 
enthusiasm.  Then  in  turn  came  Miss  Hannah 
Lynch's  analysis,  and  the  critical  and  biographical 
notes  of  Mr.  Walter  Jerrold ;  then  Mr.  Richard 
Curies'  paraphrase,  so  intimate,  so  rich  in  suggestive 
comparison,  so  finely  shaded ;  the  masterly  ex- 
position of  Mr.  G.  M.  Trevelyan ,  consistent,  supple, 
and  a  model  of  elegance  and  perspicuity  ;  and  then 
the  very  conscientious  work  of  Mrs.  Sturge  Hender- 
son. Books  and  articles  began  to  be  outpoured  from 
the  year  1898.  In  France,  Marcel  Schwob  recounted 
in  Spicilege  (1894)  his  pilgrimage  to  Box  Hill ; 
Alphonse  Daudet,  in  his  personal  notes,  which  will 
soon  form  the  volume  Notes  sur  la  Vie,1  and  Mr. 
Charles  Legras  in  Chez  nos  Contemporains  d'Angle- 
terre.  A  very  skilful  French  translation  of  The 
Essay  upon  Comedy  appeared  under  the  auspices  of 
Mr.  H.  D.  Davray.  Bibliographical  accuracy  demands 
a  mention  of  the  translation  of  The  Egoist.  Le 
Mercure  de  France  published  The  Tale  of  Chloe.  And 
in  1909  The  Tragic  Comedians  was  translated  into 
our  language  under  this  title  :  La  Tragi-Comedie  de 
I' Amour. 

George  Meredith  used  to  fascinate  his  visitors  by 

1  Mme.  Alphonse  Daudet  also  has  narrated  (see  Revue  de 
Paris,  1st  of  January,  1896)  her  two  interviews  with  George 
Meredith.  .  .  .  But  we  refrain  from  enumerating  all  the  articles 
which  French  journals  and  reviews  have  devoted  to  the  poet. 


62  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

the  expression  upon  his  face.  "  His  eyes,  during  the 
first  few  minutes  in  which  he  spoke  to  me,  were 
literally  intoxicated  with  thought,"  says  Marcel 
Schwob.  Meredith's  brain  worked  without  cessation. 
That  workshop  of  ideas  was  not  silenced  when  age 
and  infirmity  prevented  the  master  from  shutting 
himself  up  from  ten  in  the  morning  to  nine  in  the 
evening  in  the  little  two-roomed  rustic  hut,  where 
he  had  his  study.  He  remained  there,  sedentary 
and  industrious,  as  a  fisherman  in  his  boat.  "  We 
imagine  that  the  brain  becomes  weary.  Do  not 
believe  it.  The  brain  is  never  fatigued.  It  is  the 
stomach  that  we  overwork."  And  he  added,  smiling 
the  while  :  "  And  I  was  born  with  a  weak  stomach." x 

The  great  Goethe,  proud  of  his  eighty-four  years, 
maintained  that  we  die  only  when  we  consent  to  it. 
Meredith,  whose  power  of  resistance  was  not  less, 
did  not  seem  so  positive.  However,  he  despised 
death.  "  Death  ?  "  he  would  say,  "  I  have  lived 
long  enough,  I  do  not  fear  it  ;  it  is  but  the  other  side 
of  the  door;  to  die,  is  to  pass  from  one  room  to 
another.  .  .  .2 " 

But  old  age  pained  him.  Despite  the  opinion  of 
Sainte-Beuve,  who  welcomed  old  age  as  the  best 
means  that  we  had  found  for  living  a  long  time, 
Meredith  railed  against  it,  for  he  did  not  consider 
life  as  a  period  over  which  to  pass  as  slowly  as 
possible,  and  by  the  most  pleasing  route.    He  be- 

1  Spicilige,  by  Marcel  Schwob.  2  Ibid, 


HIS    LIFE  63 

lieved  that  every  thinker,  through  self-sacrifice,  con- 
tributed to  the  intellectual  development  of  humanity. 
That  is  why,  during  his  life,  he  suffered  so  much 
in  losing  that  place  for  which  earth  had  so  well 
endowed  him.  ...  He  complained  to  Mr.  W.  T. 
Stead  that  he  was  regarded  as  an  old  man  : 

"  People  talk  about  me  as  if  I  were  an  old  man. 
I  do  not  feel  old  in  the  least.  ...  I  take  as  keen  an 
interest  in  the  movement  of  life  as  ever,  I  enter  into 
the  passions  of  youth,  and  I  watch  political  affairs 
and  intrigues  of  parties  with  the  same  keen  interest 
as  of  old.  I  have  seen  the  illusion  of  it  all,  but  it  does 
not  dull  the  zest  with  which  I  enter  into  it,  and  I 
hold  more  firmly  than  ever  to  my  faith  in  the 
constant  advancement  of  the  race."  1 

And  later  to  Mr.  H.  D.  Davray  : 

"  Old  age  has  its  drawbacks,  and  even  its  weak- 
nesses, but  I  am  jealous  as  a  young  man  .  .  .  and 
I  surely  have  the  advantage  over  you  of  being  more 
experienced."  2 

He  spoke  the  truth.  Experience  had  not  deadened 
his  curiosity  nor  his  power  of  sympathy.  I  saw 
upon  a  book-rack  at  his  left  hand  several  rows  of 
books,  magazines  and  reviews,  for  the  most  part  in 
French,  which  account  for  the  paternal  interest  he 
used  to  take  in  the  progress  of  our  young  writers. 


1  Review  of  Reviews,  March,  1904. 

2  See  the  excellent  article  by  M.  H.  D.  Davray,  Mercure  de 
France,  16th  of  June,  1909. 


64  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

And  I  was  surprised  to  hear  him  mention  the 
recently  published  works  of  the  Countess  Mathieu 
de  Noailles  and  of  Gerard  d'Houville.  ...  It 
pleased  him  to  know  that  we  had  women-poets  and 
novelists.  .  .  . 

If  old  men  generally  chafe  against  their  loneliness, 
Meredith  did  not  appear  to  partake  of  their  bitter- 
ness : 

"  I  am  never  alone.  My  daughter  and  my  son  often 
pay  me  a  surprise  visit,  and  friends  come  almost  every 
day.  Even  if  no  one  comes,  I  never  feel  lonely.  I 
have  my  own  thoughts.  .  .  ."  1 

He  had,  besides,  the  good  fortune  to  keep  to  the 
end  several  of  his  friends.  Admiral  Maxse,  the 
original  of  Nevil  Beauchamp,  was  only  taken  from 
him  in  1900.  And  often  in  speaking  with  Viscount 
Morley,  Leslie  Stephen,  or  Mr.  Frederick  Greenwood, 
he  would  forget  the  passing  of  the  years.  But  the 
death  of  Swinburne,  his  old  comrade,  was  a  dire 
blow  to  him.  Not  satisfied  with  having  written  an 
affectionate  and  touching  letter  to  Mr.  Theodore 
Watts-Dunton,  he  dedicated  some  very  noble  lines 
in  The  Tunes  of  the  15th  of  April,  1909,  upon  the 
death  of  the  poet. 

Even  as  from  a  wild  cherry  tree,  all  starred  with 
white  blossom,  he  had  gained  comfort,  during  the  slow 
illness  of  his  second  wife  in  1885,  so  again  Meredith 

1  See  the  excellent  article  by  M.  H.  D.  Davray,  Mercure  de 
France,  16th  of  June,  1909. 


HIS    LIFE  65 

impatiently  awaited  the  first  days  of  calm.  He 
derived  his  chief  consolation  from  his  beloved 
lawns,  from  his  fir  trees  and  cedars  at  Mickleham. 
He  might  have  been  likened  to  the  last  of  the  Druids 
evoking  the  spirit  of  the  oaks. 

On  the  4th  of  May,  shortly  before  his  death,  he 
said :  "  Nature  is  my  God,  and  I  trust  in  her.  .  .  . 
Without  doubt,  lovers  of  Nature,  as  long  as  they 
have  contact  with  men,  cannot  escape  suffering  ; 
but  their  burdens  will  be  lightened  since  they 
themselves  turn  towards  Nature.  ..."  Then,  sud- 
denly the  strong  voice  quavered  ;  and  broken  and 
sad  as  that  of  a  child  who  is  ill,  it  murmured  :  "  You 
know — now — they  do  not  allow  me  to  go  out !  "  It 
was  suggested  to  him  that  he  could  always  be  driven 
out.  "  Ah,  yes  !  "  replied  he  testily,  "  but  I  loathe 
it."  His  "unconquerable  youthf  ulness  " 1  bitterly 
resented  the  weaknesses  of  his  body.  And  yet  how 
glad  he  was  each  time  they  harnessed  the  grey 
donkey  to  the  little  chaise  !  .  .  . 

At  last  he  went  out  again  on  Friday,  the  14th  of 
May,  after  days  of  torrential  rain,  and  after  many 
weeks  of  indoor  life.  The  low  bank  of  cloud  had 
lifted.  Spring  was  just  lightly  touching  the  copses 
and  the  ploughed  land,  "  that  precocious  spring 
which  shivers  still  with  cold."  2  Golden  blossoms 
already    bespangled    the    moistened    earth ;     the 

1  H.  D.  Davray,  article  mentioned. 

2  Invitation  to  the  Country  poem,  1851. 


06  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

cuckoo,  the  blackbird  and  the  thrush  from  every 
branch  proclaimed  their  joyous  nuptials ;  the 
cawing  of  rooks  resounded  in  the  elms,  and  the 
lowing  of  the  cattle  in  the  meadows  was  heard  from 
afar.  .  .  .  But  the  shadows  of  the  low  storm-clouds 
glided  ceaselessly  over  the  land ;  for  these  first 
weeks  of  May  in  England,  though  inviting,  are  very 
treacherous.  Meredith  shivered  during  that  Satur- 
day morning's  ride.  Upon  his  return  he  took  to  his 
bed.  Vainly  the  doctors  strove  to  allay  the  fever, 
and  he  was  forbidden  to  get  up.  After  a  short  and 
painful  illness,  on  the  18th  of  May,  1909,  at  3.35  in 
the  morning,  silently  clasping  his  daughter's  hand, 
George  Meredith  entered  upon  that  rest,  so  profound, 
so  perfect,  that  is  followed  by  no  awakening. 

•         • 

His  remains  were  cremated.  The  hearse,  drawn 
by  two  horses,  followed  the  route  from  Flint  Cottage 
to  Woking.  Some  branches  of  brier  and  white  lilac 
lay  upon  the  oaken  coffin,  upon  which  a  copper 
plate  indicated  the  name  and  age  of  the  departed, 
and  the  date  of  his  death.  This  metal  plate  was 
afterwards  fixed  upon  the  casket  which  was  to 
receive  the  ashes.  There  was  no  religious  service 
during  the  cremation,  at  which  only  the  family  was 
present.  Meredith  would  have  liked  his  ashes  to  be 
cast  to  the  winds.  But  the  little  urn  of  human 
dust  was  brought  back  to  Flint  Cottage. 

The  funeral  took  place  on  the  morrow  at  2.30  in 


HIS    LIFE  67 

the  afternoon  at  the  cemetery  of  Dorking.  The 
inhabitants  of  the  village  mingled  with  Meredith's 
admirers  who  had  arrived  by  a  special  train  ;  but 
both  in  such  small  numbers  that  the  simplicity  of 
the  obsequies  was  retained.  There  was  an  entire 
absence  of  speech.  The  casket  containing  the  ashes, 
reverently  carried  by  the  poet's  daughter,  Mrs.  H. 
P.  Sturgis,  and  by  her  brother,  Mr.  William  Maxse 
Meredith,  was  lowered  into  the  grave,  adorned  by 
the  humble  flowers  of  the  bramble.  A  clergyman 
muttered  some  Anglican  prayers.  But  the  only 
prayer  needed  by  this  disciple  and  lover  of  nature 
was  the  sounds  of  the  birds,  of  the  bees,  and  of  the 
winds,  which  filled  that  peaceful  enclosure  during 
that  brief  and  abrupt  liturgy.  The  weather  was 
beautiful.  Never  had  the  springtime  in  Britain  burst 
forth  in  greater  glee.  .  .  . 

At  the  same  time,  in  London,  in  the  venerable 
Westminster  Abbey,  the  Dean  conducted  with 
great  ceremony  a  requiem  service.  They  adopted 
the  same  ritual  for  George  Meredith  as  for  the  late 
Marquis  of  Salisbury.  Some  litanies,  the  Psalms 
xiii.,  cxxx.,  and  xxm.  followed  the  Miserere,  chanted 
in  procession  from  the  nave  to  the  choir.  The  lesson 
was  part  of  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  Second  Epistle 
to  the  Corinthians,  and  there  was  sung  Wesley's 
anthem,  "All  go  to  one  place."  Then,  after  some 
more  prayers,  and  the  hymn,  "  O  God,  our  help  in 
ages  past,"  the  Dean  pronounced  the  Benediction. 


68  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Artists,  men  of  letters,  politicians,  and  the  fashion- 
able world  thronged  into  Westminster.  At  last  he 
was  dead,  that  sculptor  of  strange  figures  ;  he  who 
laboured  and  strove  for  sixty  years  !  And  that  im- 
posing assembly,  where  the  ancient  ritual  was 
pronounced  with  zeal  and  ostentation,  lavished 
upon  his  dead  body  the  honours  denied  to  his 
intellect. 

But  a  soul,  touched  with  the  same  tongue  of  fire, 
a  visionary  bathed  in  purest  rays  of  light,  rendered 
a  brotherly  homage  to  Meredith.  Mr.  Thomas 
Hardy  cried : 

Forty  years  back,  when  much  had  place 
That  since  has  perished  out  of  mind, 
I  heard  that  voice,  and  saw  that  face. 

He  spoke  as  one  afoot  will  wind 

A  morning  horn  ere  men  awake  ; 

His  note  was  trenchant,  smart,  but  kind. 

He  was  of  those  whose  words  can  shake 

And  riddle  to  the  very  core 

The  falsities  that  Time  will  break.  .  .  . 

Of  late,  when  we  two  met  once  more, 
The  luminous  countenance  and  rare 
Shone  just  as  forty  years  before. 

So  that,  when  now  all  tongues  declare 
He  is  unseen  by  his  green  hill, 
I  scarce  believe  he  sits  not  there. 

No  matter.     Further  and  further  still 
Through  the  world's  vaporous  vitiate  air 
His  words  wing  on — as  strong  words  will.1 

1  G.  M.  (1828-1909),  poem  by  Thomas  Hardy. 


HIS    LIFE  69 

Let  us  believe  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy.  And  no 
more  let  us  seek  around  us  the  soul  of  the  poet 
George  Meredith — a  soul  which  has  passed  into  the 
light,  up  to  the  stars,  as  that  blithe  morning  lark 
of  which  he  has  so  often  sung  !  x 

1  We  can  imagine  nothing  more  sweet,  more  touching,  than 
the  pages  written  by  Mr.  J.  M.  Barrie  on  the  22nd  of  May,  1909 
(v.  George  Meredith,  1909,  Constable  and  Co.).  They  form  a 
worthy  counterpart  to  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy's  poem. 


CHAPTER    III 
GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  GENIUS 

MORE  than  ever  since  journalism  has  become 
general  and  more  complete,  one  imagines 
that  real  masterpieces  are  capable  of  indefinite 
expansion.  But  when  an  old  man,  who  is  a  genius, 
confines  himself  to  solitude,  without  any  other 
admirers  than  a  mere  handful  of  followers,  one 
hardly  dares  to  announce  him  as  a  man  of  talent. 
Why  did  he  remain  obscure  ?  .  .  .  Many  people, 
who  pretend  to  love  literature,  not  having  read 
any  of  Meredith's  works,  find  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy's 
praises  hyperbolical. 

"  Bring  to  us,"  they  say  ironically,  "  some  of 
these  marvellous  messages  which  '  take  wing  as 
immortal  words  take  wing  upon  the  wind,'  and 
explain  to  us  why  they  have  been  so  slow  in  reaching 
us.  .  .  .  If  George  Meredith  is  as  entrancing  as  you 
say,  why  has  he  not  been  translated  into  French 
like  Dickens,  Thackeray,  George  Eliot,  the  sisters 
Bronte,  Rudyard  Kipling,  or  even  as  Mr.  Thomas 
Hardy  himself  ?  France  gives  generous  hearing  to 
foreign    authors.  .  .  .  How    does    it    happen    that 

70 


HIS    GENIUS  71 

Meredith  was  not  more  celebrated  during  his  life- 
time ?   .  .  ." 

There  is  as  much  criticism  as  questioning.  But 
this  is  not  the  place  to  reply.  We  will  give  elsewhere 
our  opinion  why  George  Meredith  will  never  become 
a  popular  author.  We  will  study  the  innumerable 
reasons  which  prevent  the  diffusion  of  his  works. 
We  shall  see  why  both  his  verse  and  his  prose  are 
difficult  of  access  ;  why  they  do  not  appeal  to 
translators  ;  why  they  rebuff  the  readers  of  news- 
paper serials,  the  frequenters  of  lending-libraries, 
and,  above  all,  the  indolent  who  seek  in  books  any 
easy  and  exciting  way  of  passing  a  few  moments. 

For  the  moment,  with  a  view  to  learning  something 
of  what  Meredith  can  teach  us,  let  us  analyse  his 
achievements.  The  poet-novelist  displays  the  most 
varied  gifts.  Which  are  the  most  striking  ?  George 
Meredith  displays  himself  in  turn,  poet,  story-teller, 
philosopher  and  wit.  And  of  all  these  characters, 
the  one  first  to  attract  our  attention — provided  that 
we  have  the  necessary  sensibility — to  fascinate  us 
and  secure  our  sympathy  for  the  other  qualities,  is 
George  Meredith,  the  creator  of  beautiful  stories. 
The  secret  of  Meredith's  irresistible  magnetism,  of 
his  charm,  of  his  fame,  which  will  be  upheld  for  ever 
by  eager  and  faithful  followers,  despite  his  com- 
plicated thought  and  his  extravagant  style,  is  the 
richness  of  his  imagination.  He  offers  to  us  a 
magnificent    picture-book.      We    begin    by    being 


72  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

enraptured  with  the  illustrations.  We  must  feast 
our  eyes  upon  the  outlines,  the  forms  and  colours, 
before  we  decipher  the  stories  and  the  text. 

How  is  one  to  give  an  idea  of  this  imagination  ? 
...  To  say  that  it  is  inexhaustible,  that  it 
bewilders  on  account  of  the  depth  and  richness  of 
its  resource,  that  it  makes  an  appeal  to  the  most 
varied  sentiments,  that  it  mocks  at  obstacles,  that 
it  transforms  the  vilest  thing  into  precious  material 
— all  this  amounts  to  very  little.  One  can  hardly 
analyse  a  faculty  so  pulsating  with  life  as  imagina- 
tion. Its  flexibility  baffles  the  rules  of  language. 
If  one  attempts  to  adapt  for  it  a  formula,  it  refuses 
to  comply ;  it  immediately  creates,  as  if  through 
malice,  something  unforeseen  which  destroys  our 
endeavours.  How  is  it  possible  to  give  a  portrait 
resembling  Shakespeare  or  Balzac  to  one  who  has 
never  read  a  line  of  either  ?  A  Sainte-Beuve  would 
not  succeed  in  doing  so.  In  order  to  judge  of  an 
imagination,  it  is  necessary  to  have  seen  proofs  of  it. 
Rather,  therefore,  than  weary  ourselves  with 
epithets,  or  approximate  definitions,  it  seems 
preferable  to  relate  some  one  of  these  beautiful 
stories,  giving  quotations  which  will  serve  as  data, 
and  will  grant  to  the  reader,  as  through  a  screen,  a 
glimpse  of  the  splendour  of  the  original. 

But  Meredith's  rich  and  romantic  array  is  like  a 
picture-gallery,  where  only  the  canvases  of  masters 
figure.     Each  of  these  pictures  is  distinguished  by 


HIS    GENIUS  73 

some  rare  and  brilliant  characteristic.  It  would  be 
an  impossibility  to  make  a  choice,  if  one  did  not 
realise  in  the  career  of  great  artists  some  period 
particularly  glorious,  during  which  their  genius 
radiates  with  a  light  as  bright  as  that  of  the  sun  at 
its  zenith.  George  Meredith  reached  his  apogee 
about  the  age  of  forty. 

It  was  at  this  period,  after  the  publication  of 
Rhoda  Fleming  and  Sandra  Belloni,  and  while 
Beauchamp's  Career  and  The  Egoist  were  in  course  of 
preparation,  that  he  wrote  The  Adventures  of  Harry 
Richmond. 

Although  this  book  does  not  surpass  the  others 
in  depth  of  thought,  it  is  the  one  which  many 
eminent  men  prefer,  because  nowhere  has  Meredith's 
fancy  found  such  freedom.  Uncurbed  by  philo- 
sophical reservations,  George  Meredith  has  been 
able  to  allow  his  imagination  free  scope  ;  and  happy 
in  feeling  free,  it  has  displayed  for  the  first  time  the 
extent  of  its  power.  It  is  therefore  Harry  Richmond 
that  we  shall  choose  if  the  reader  desires  a  specimen 
of  Meredith.  We  shall  do  so  with  all  the  more 
assurance,  as  it  is  the  only  book  which  we  can 
summarise  without  in  any  way  doing  an  injustice. 
The  loss  of  ornament  does  not  deprive  it  of  all  beauty. 
Certainly  George  Meredith  has  never  written  a  line 
without  being  in  some  degree  esoteric  ;  but  here, 
at  least,  the  literal  sense  is  quite  sufficient  in  itself, 
and  one  can  read  Harry  Richmond  without  worrying 


74  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

oneself  as  to  what  lies  beneath  it.  Neither  an 
enigma,  a  poem  in  prose,  an  Oriental  fantasy,  a 
pamphlet,  a  pleading,  a  legal  address,  nor  a  parable, 
Harry  Richmond  pretends  to  be  nothing  more  than 
a  fine  story. 

This  is  evident  at  the  beginning.  Contrary  to  the 
other  novels  of  Meredith,  The  Adventures  of  Harry 
Richmond  do  not  begin  with  a  tortuous  preface,  but 
with  a  prologue  which  has  the  boldness  and  the 
precision  of  a  tale,  the  brightness  of  a  fairy-story, 
and  the  pathos  of  a  little  one-act  drama.  This 
prologue  gives  the  novel  an  unforgettable  frontis- 
piece. It  testifies  to  the  superior  essence  of  an 
imagination  which  is  ever  displaying  greater  strength 
in  later  chapters.  And  forthwith  the  writer  leads 
us  into  strange  paths,  and  fairy  lands,  where  a 
commonplace  novelist  would  never  venture. 

But  instead  of  prolonging  these  remarks,  let  the 
reader  judge  for  himself  !  It  is  for  him  to  decide  if 
Harry  Richmond  is  really  a  fine  story.  We  will 
withdraw  and  leave  him  face  to  face  with  Meredith. 

•         • 

One  midnight  of  a  winter  month,  the  occupants 
of  Riversley  Grange  were  awakened  by  the  ringing 
of  the  outer  bell,  and  by  numerous  blows  upon  the 
great  hall-doors. 

Squire  Beltham  was  master  there  :  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  household  were,  his  daughter  Dorothy 
Beltham  ;   a  married  daughter,  Mrs.  Richmond  ;    Ben- 


HIS    GENIUS  75 

jamin  Sewis,  an  old  half-caste  butler  ;  various  domestic 
servants  ;  and  a  little  boy,  christened  Harry  Lepel 
Richmond,  the  squire's  grandson.  Riversley  Grange 
lay  in  a  rich  watered  hollow  of  the  Hampshire  heath- 
country  ;  a  lonely  circle  of  enclosed  brook  and  pasture, 
within  view  of  some  of  its  dependent  farms,  but  out  of 
hail  of  them  or  any  dwelling  except  the  stables  and  the 
head-gardener's  cottage. 

There  was,  then,  on  this  winter's  night,  a  great 
commotion  in  the  Grange.  The  domestics  of  both 
sexes  hastily  left  their  rooms  and  gathered  together 
in  the  corridors.  All,  in  their  dismay,  feared  an 
attack  by  robbers.  The  only  one  who  slept,  in 
spite  of  the  knocking,  was  Mr.  Beltham. 

The  squire  was  a  hunter  of  the  old  sort :  a  hard  rider, 
deep  drinker,  and  heavy  slumberer.  Before  venturing 
to  shake  his  arm  Sewis  struck  a  light  and  flashed  it  over 
the  squire's  eyelids  to  make  the  task  of  rousing  him 
easier.  At  the  first  touch  the  squire  sprang  up,  swear- 
ing by  his  Lord  Harry  he  had  just  dreamed  of  fire,  and 
muttering  of  buckets. 

"  Sewis  !  you're  the  man,  are  you :  where  has  it 
broken  out  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  no  fire,"  said  Sewis ;  "  you  be  cool, 
sir." 

"  Cool,  sir  !  confound  it,  Sewis,  haven't  I  heard  a  whole 
town  of  steeples  at  work  ?  I  don't  sleep  so  thick  but  I 
can  hear,  you  dog  !  Fellow  comes  here,  gives  me  a  start, 
tells  me  to  be  cool ;  what  the  deuce  !  nobody  hurt, 
then  ?   all  right  !  " 

The  squire  had  fallen  back  on  his  pillow  and  was 
relapsing  to  sleep. 

Sewis  spoke  impressively :    "  There's  a  gentleman 


76  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

downstairs  ;  a  gentleman  downstairs,  sir.    He  has  come 
rather  late." 

The  squire  did  not  take  the  news  seriously.  He 
ordered  them  to  give  the  visitor  some  hot  brandy 
and  water,  and  a  bed.  Then,  thinking  to  look  at 
his  watch,  he  found  that  it  was  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  This  put  him  into  a  violent  temper,  for 
he  could  not  tolerate  that  anyone  should  enter  his 
house  at  that  time,  and  he  cried  : 

"  Lift  him  out  o'  the  house  on  the  top  o'  your  boot, 
Sewis,  and  say  it's  mine  ;  you've  my  leave  !  .  .  ." 

The  good  Sewis  retreated  a  step  from  the  bedside. 
When  he  was  at  a  safe  distance,  he  fronted  his 
master  steadily  and  said  : 

"  It's  Mr.  Richmond,  sir." 

"  Mr.  ..."  The  squire  checked  his  breath.  That 
was  a  name  never  uttered  at  the  Grange.  "  The  scoun- 
drel ?  "  he  inquired  harshly,  half  in  a  tone  of  one  assuring 
himself,  and  his  rigid  dropped  jaw  shut. 

The  fact  had  to  be  denied  or  affirmed  instantly,  and 
Sewis  was  silent. 

Grasping  his  bedclothes  in  a  lump,  the  squire  cried  : 
"  Downstairs  ?  downstairs,  Sewis  ?  You've  admitted 
him  into  my  house  !  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"You  have!" 

"  He  is  not  in  the  house,  sir." 

'  You  have  !    How  did  you  speak  to  him,  then  ?  " 

"  Out  of  my  window,  sir." 

"  What  place  here  is  the  scoundrel  soiling  now  ?  " 

"  He  is  on  the  doorstep  outside  the  house." 


HIS    GENIUS  77 

"  Outside,  is  he  ?  and  the  door's  locked  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Let  him  rot  there  !  " 

But  the  patience  of  the  midnight  visitor  had 
become  exhausted,  for  he  redoubled  his  blows  upon 
the  door  ;  and  the  squire,  hearing  the  clamour, 
jumped  out  of  bed,  fastened  on  his  clothes,  and 
quickly  ready,  descended  to  the  hall.  Having  sent 
away  all  the  domestics  except  Sewis,  he  pushed 
aside  the  bolts,  and  threw  the  door  open  to  the  limit 
of  the  chain. 

"  Who's  there  ?  "  he  demanded. 

A  response  followed  promptly  from  outside  :  "I  take 
you  to  be  Mr.  Harry  Lepel  Beltham.  Correct  me  if  I 
err.  Accept  my  apologies  for  disturbing  you  at  a  late 
hour  of  the  night,  I  pray." 

"  Your  name  ?  " 

"  Is  plain  Augustus  Fitz-George  Roy  Richmond  at  this 
moment,  Mr.  Beltham.  You  will  recognize  me  better  by 
opening  your  door  entirely  :  voices  are  deceptive.  You 
were  born  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Beltham,  and  will  not  reduce 
me  to  request  you  to  behave  like  one.  I  am  now  in  the 
position,  as  it  were,  of  addressing  a  badger  in  his  den.  It 
is  on  both  sides  unsatisfactory.  It  reflects  egregious 
discredit  upon  you,  the  householder." 

The  squire  resolved  to  open  the  door  wide  to  the 
fullest  extent. 

It  was  a  quiet  grey  night,  and  as  the  doors  flew  open, 
a  largely-built  man,  dressed  in  a  high-collared  great-coat 
and  fashionable  hat  of  the  time,  stood  clearly  defined 
to  view.    He  carried  a  light  cane,  with  the  point  of  the 


78  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

silver  handle  against  his  under  lip.  There  was  nothing 
formidable  in  his  appearance,  and  his  manner  was 
affectedly  affable.  He  lifted  his  hat  as  soon  as  he  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  the  squire,  disclosing  a  partially 
bald  head,  though  his  whiskering  was  luxuriant,  and  a 
robust  condition  of  manhood  was  indicated  by  his  erect 
attitude  and  the  immense  swell  of  his  furred  great-coat 
at  the  chest.  His  features  were  exceedingly  frank  and 
cheerful.  From  his  superior  height,  he  was  enabled  to 
look  down  quite  royally  on  the  man  whose  repose  he 
had  disturbed. 

The  squire  curtly  demanded  his  business. 

"  The  grounds  for  my  coming  at  all  you  will  very 
well  understand,  and  you  will  applaud  me  when  I  declare 
to  you  that  I  come  to  her  penitent  ;  to  exculpate  myself, 
certainly,  but  despising  self-justification.  I  love  my 
wife,  Mr.  Beltham.  Yes  ;  hear  me  out,  sir.  I  can  point 
to  my  unhappy  star,  and  say,  blame  that  more  than  me. 
That  star  of  my  birth  and  most  disastrous  fortunes 
should  plead  on  my  behalf  to  you  ;  to  my  wife  at  least 
it  will." 

"  You've  come  to  see  my  daughter  Marian,  have 
you  ?  " 

"My  wife,  sir." 

"  You  don't  cross  my  threshold  while  I  live." 

"  You  compel  her  to  come  out  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  stays  where  she  is,  poor  wretch,  till  the  grave 
takes  her.    You've  done  your  worst ;  be  off." 

"  Mr.  Beltham,  I  am  not  to  be  restrained  from  the 
sight  of  my  wife." 

"  Scamp  !  " 

"  By  no  scurrilous  epithets  from  a  man  I  am  bound 
to  respect  will  I  be  deterred  or  exasperated." 

"  Damned  scamp,  I  say  !  " 


HIS    GENIUS  79 

The  squire  gave  vent  to  his  fury.  And  he  cursed 
anew  the  day  when  this  charlatan,  this  adventurer, 
had  presented  himself  for  the  first  time  at  Riversley. 
Mr.  Richmond  was  then  honey-tongued  ;  he  used 
to  sing  with  a  languorous  manner  snatches  of  merry 
airs  in  a  foreign  and  romantic  language  ;  he  made 
mysterious  allusions  to  his  illustrious  birth.  By 
these  means  he  bewitched  Marian,  one  of  the 
squire's  two  daughters.  She  consented  to  run  away 
with  him.  But  she  was  not  slow  to  learn  that  she 
had  married  a  rogue,  and  returned  to  her  family. 
Too  late,  however ;  she  became  insane  through 
shame  and  despair  ;  so  much  so  that  she  no  longer 
recognised  the  members  of  her  family,  not  even  her 
own  little  boy. 

"  My  wife  deranged  !  I  might  presume  it  too  truly  an 
inherited  disease.  Do  you  trifle  with  me,  sir  ?  Her 
reason  unseated  !  and  can  you  pretend  to  the  right  of 
dividing  us  ?  If  this  be  as  you  say — Oh  !  ten  thousand 
times  the  stronger  my  claim,  my  absolute  claim,  to 
cherish  her.  Make  way  for  me,  Mr.  Beltham.  I  solicit 
humbly  the  holiest  privilege  sorrow  can  crave  of 
humanity.  My  wife  !  my  wife  !  Make  way  for  me, 
sir." 

His  figure  was  bent  to  advance.  The  squire  shouted 
an  order  to  Sewis  to  run  round  to  the  stables  and  slip  the 
dogs  loose. 

It  is  in  vain  that,  with  angry  imprecations  and 
with  most  touching  prayers,  Mr.  Richmond  strove 
to  appease  his  father-in-law.     The  latter  remained 


80  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

implacable.    For  sole  reply,  he  whistled  for  his  dogs. 
Then  Mr.  Richmond  spoke  : 

"  You  claim  a  paternal  right  to  refuse  me  :  my  wife  is 
your  child.    Good.    I  wish  to  see  my  son." 

On  that  point  the  squire  was  equally  decided.  "  You 
can't.    He's  asleep." 

11  I  insist." 

:<  Nonsense  :  I  tell  you  he's  a-bed  and  asleep." 

"  I  repeat,  I  insist." 

"  When  the  boy's  fast  asleep,  man  !  " 

"  The  boy  is  my  flesh  and  blood.  You  have  spoken 
for  your  daughter — I  speak  for  my  son.  I  will  see  him, 
though  I  have  to  batter  at  your  doors  till  sunrise." 

Some  minutes  later  the  boy  was  taken  out  of  his 
bed  by  his  Aunt  Dorothy.  While  dressing  him,  the 
good  girl  burst  into  tears  ;  she  covered  her  nephew 
with  convulsive  caresses  and  told  him  to  have  no  fear. 
A  gentleman  wanted  to  see  him  ;  nothing  more. 
But  Miss  Dorothy  did  not  say  whether  the  gentleman 
was  a  good  man  or  a  robber.  She  handed  the  little 
Harry  to  the  butler  Sewis,  and  when  he  had  been 
deposited  upon  the  floor  of  the  hall,  the  child 
perceived  the  stranger  upon  the  threshold.  And 
it  appeared  to  him  that  he  was  like  the  giants  of 
fairy-books,  when  he  saw  him  standing  upon  the 
steps,  in  the  framework  of  sinister  sky  and  darkling 
trees. 

The  squire  wished  to  take  his  grandson  by  the 
hand  and  present  him,  but  the  stranger  caught  up 
the  child.     With  cries  of  joy  and  tenderness,   he 


HIS    GENIUS  81 

raised  him  in  his  arms,  and  embraced  him,  at  the 
same  time  asking  if  he  had  forgotten  his  papa.  The 
child  replied  that  he  had  a  mamma  and  a  grand- 
papa, but  no  papa.  Upon  this,  Mr.  Richmond  gave 
a  deep  groan  and  said  angrily  to  the  squire  : 

"  You  see  what  you  have  done  ;  you  have  cut 
me  off  from  my  own.  Four  years  of  separation, 
and  my  son  has  been  taught  to  think  that  he  has  no 
father.  By  heavens  !  it  is  infamous,  it  is  a  curst  piece 
of  inhumanity.  Mr.  Beltham,  if  I  do  not  see  my  wife,  I 
carry  off  my  son." 

"  You  take  him  from  his  mother  ?  "  the  squire  sang 
out. 

"  You  swear  to  me  she  has  lost  her  wits  ;  she  cannot 
suffer.    I  can." 

"  What  !  Stop  !  Not  to  take  a  child  like  that  out  of 
a  comfortable  house  at  night  in  Winter,  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  night  is  temperate  and  warm  ;  he  shall  not 
remain  in  a  house  where  his  father  is  dishonoured." 

"  Stop  !  not  a  bit  of  it,"  cried  the  squire.  "  No  one 
speaks  of  you.  I  give  you  my  word,  you're  never  men- 
tioned by  man,  woman  or  child  in  the  house." 

"  Silence  concerning  a  father  insinuates  dishonour, 
Mr.  Beltham." 

The  squire  reddened  with  anger,  and  declared 
that  if  the  child  left  Riversley,  he  should  go  for  good, 
and  that  he  should  never  receive  a  penny  from  his 
grandfather.    And  the  squire  called  to  his  grandson  : 

"  Here,  Harry,  come  to  me  ;  come  to  your  grandad." 
Mr.  Richmond  caught  the   boy  just  when  he  was 
turning  to  run. 

"  That  gentleman,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  squire, 

G 


82  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

"  is  your  grandpapa.  I  am  your  papa.  You  must  learn 
at  any  cost  to  know  and  love  your  papa.  If  I  call  for 
you  to-morrow  or  next  day  they  will  have  played  tricks 
with  Harry  Richmond,  and  hid  him.  Mr.  Beltham,  I 
request  you,  for  the  final  time,  to  accord  me  your 
promise — observe,  I  accept  your  promise — that  I  shall, 
at  my  demand,  to-morrow  or  the  next  day,  obtain  an 
interview  with  my  wife." 

The  squire  emphatically  refused  this  demand. 
But  he  offered  money ;  a  cheque  for  a  thousand 
pounds,  and  in  addition  fifty  pounds  a  year,  on 
condition  that  he  should  keep  his  grandson,  and 
that  Mr.  Richmond  should  never  again  appear  at 
Riversley.  Besides,  Mr.  Beltham  promised  to  make 
Harry  his  heir  ;  he  would  bequeath  to  him  Riversley 
Grange,  and  the  best  part  of  his  property. 

To  which  Mr.  Richmond  replied  with  unutterable 
contempt  : 

"  You  offer  me  money.  That  is  one  of  the  indignities 
belonging  to  a  connection  with  a  man  like  you.  You 
would  have  me  sell  my  son.  To  see  my  afflicted  wife  I 
would  forfeit  my  heart's  yearnings  for  my  son  ;  your 
money,  sir,  I  toss  to  the  winds  ;  and  I  am  under  the 
necessity  of  informing  you  that  I  despise  and  loathe 
you.  I  shrink  from  the  thought  of  exposing  my  son 
to  your  besotted  selfish  example.  The  boy  is  mine  ;  I 
have  him,  and  he  shall  traverse  the  wilderness  with  me. 
By  heaven  !  his  destiny  is  brilliant.  He  shall  be  hailed 
for  what  he  is,  the  rightful  claimant  of  a  place  among 
the  proudest  in  the  land  ;  and  mark  me,  Mr.  Beltham, 
obstinate  sensual  old  man  that  you  are  !  I  take  the 
boy,  and  I  consecrate  my  life  to  the  duty  of  establishing 


HIS    GENIUS  83 

him  in  his  proper  rank  and  station,  and  there,  if  you 
live  and  I  live,  you  shall  behold  him  and  bow  your 
grovelling  pig's  head  to  the  earth,  and  bemoan  the  day, 
by  heaven  !  when  you — a  common  country  squire,  a 
man  of  no  origin,  a  creature  with  whose  blood  we  have 
mixed  ours — and  he  is  stone-blind  to  the  honour  con- 
ferred on  him — when  you  in  your  besotted  stupidity 
threatened  to  disinherit  Harry  Richmond." 

The  door  suddenly  slammed  with  deafening  noise, 
which  put  an  end  to  further  speech.  The  speaker 
remained  at  first  bewildered.  Then,  as  his  little 
Harry  was  about  to  sob,  he  drew  a  pretty  box  from 
his  pocket,  and  thrust  a  delicious  sweetmeat  between 
the  child's  lips.  He  dropped  on  one  knee  and  care- 
fully wrapped  his  charge  in  the  folds  of  the  shawl, 
and  turning  his  back  on  Riversley  Grange,  he 
stepped  out  briskly  towards  the  park. 

In  the  distance  the  child  faintly  heard  a  voice 
coming  from  the  Grange  ;  a  woman's  voice,  which 
he  knew  to  be  his  Aunt  Dorothy's.  The  cry  vibrated 
but  once :  "  Harry  Richmond."  Some  minutes 
afterwards  the  child  was  out  of  hearing.  .  .  . 

•         • 

By  the  dramatic  intensity  of  this  scene,  the 
novelist  at  once  grips  the  attention  of  the  reader. 
Nevertheless,  these  first  pages  must  be  clearly 
separated  from  that  which  follows.  The  second 
chapter  is  in  quite  another  vein.  It  is  not  George 
Meredith  who  gives  us  a  piece  of  fiction  ;  it  is  Harry 
Richmond  himself,  who  relates  his  own  story.    And 


84  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

this  literary  expedient  has  the  effect  of  making  the 
book  more  living,  more  natural. 

In  fact,  nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  the 
way  in  which  Harry  enters  upon  an  account  of  his 
astonishing  adventures.  And  although  there  are 
lapses  of  memory,  and  he  passes  abruptly  over  a 
period  of  two  or  three  years,  and  does  not  supply  us 
with  sufficient  information  with  regard  to  the  extra- 
ordinary circumstances  of  his  life — we  will  scarcely 
quibble  over  these  trifles,  being  at  the  outset  pre- 
possessed by  his  candour  and  convinced  of  his 
good  faith. 

• 

Let  us  not  then  find  fault  with  Harry  Richmond 
— that  child  of  four  years ! — for  not  having 
remembered  more  precisely  the  events  which  fol- 
lowed upon  his  departure  from  Riversley  Grange. 
Some  of  his  descriptions  and  experiences  must 
suffice.  It  is  much  to  us  that  he  is  able  to  remember 
his  surprise  when  he  heard  for  the  first  time  the 
deafening  roar  of  human  voices  and  of  vehicles.  .  .  . 
Harry  Richmond  came  to  London.  He  would  have 
suffered  most  cruelly  from  home-sickness,  this  child, 
so  young,  and  companionless,  and  so  recently 
brought  from  the  country,  if  he  had  not  had  his 
father. 

My  father  could  soon  make  me  forget  that  I  was  trans- 
planted ;  he  could  act  dog,  tame  rabbit,  fox,  pony,  and 
a  whole  nursery  collection  alive,  but  he  was  sometimes 


HIS    GENIUS  85 

absent  for  days,  and  I  was  not  of  a  temper  to  be  on 
friendly  terms  with  those  who  were  unable  to  captivate 
my  imagination  as  he  had  done.  When  he  was  at  home 
I  rode  him  all  round  the  room  and  upstairs  to  bed.  I 
lashed  him  with  a  whip  till  he  frightened  me,  so  real 
was  his  barking  ;  if  I  said  "  Menagerie  "  he  became  a 
caravan  of  wild  beasts  ;  I  undid  a  button  of  his  waistcoat, 
and  it  was  a  lion  that  made  a  spring,  roaring  at  me  ;  I 
pulled  his  coat-tails  and  off  I  went  tugging  at  an  old  bear 
that  swung  a  hind  leg  as  he  turned,  in  the  queerest  way, 
and  then  sat  up  and  beating  his  breast  sent  out  a  mew- 
moan.  Our  room  was  richer  to  me  than  all  the  Grange 
while  these  performances  were  going  forward. 

Sunday  was  a  time  of  delight  for  the  child,  as 
Mr.  Richmond  devoted  the  whole  day  to  him. 

Both  of  us  attired  in  our  best,  we  walked  along  the 
streets  hand  in  hand  ;  my  father  led  me  before  the 
cathedral  monuments,  talking  in  a  low  tone  of  British 
victories,  and  commending  the  heroes  to  my  undivided 
attention.  I  understood  very  early  that  it  was  my  duty 
to  imitate  them.  While  we  remained  in  the  cathedral  he 
talked  of  glory  and  Old  England,  and  dropped  his  voice 
in  the  middle  of  a  murmured  chant  to  introduce  Nelson's 
name  or  some  other  great  man's  :  and  this  recurred 
regularly.  "  What  are  we  for  now  ?  "  he  would  ask  me 
as  we  left  our  house.  I  had  to  decide  whether  we  took 
a  hero  or  an  author,  which  I  soon  learnt  to  do  with 
capricious  resolution.  We  were  one  Sunday  for 
Shakespeare  ;  another  for  Nelson  or  Pitt.  "  Nelson, 
papa,"  was  my  most  frequent  rejoinder,  and  he  never 
dissented,  but  turned  his  steps  toward  Nelson's  cathe- 
dral dome,  and  uncovered  his  head  there,  and  said  : 
"  Nelson,  then,  to-day  "  ;  and  we  went  straight  to  his 
monument  to  perform  the  act  of  homage.    There  never 


86  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

was  so  fascinating  a  father  as  mine  for  a  boy  anything 
under  eight  or  ten  years  old. 

Assuredly  a  manner  of  expressing  hero-worship, 
which  Thomas  Carlyle  had  not  foreseen  !  .  .  . 

Mr.  Richmond  made  all  Shakespeare's  characters, 
from  Falstaff  to  Shylock,  pass  before  the  wide- 
opened  eyes  of  his  son.  And  since  a  child  would  not 
be  much  interested  in  the  career  of  William  Pitt, 
Mr.  Richmond  had  invented  a  means  of  making 
the  orator  more  attractive :  he  attributed  to 
William  Pitt  an  inordinate  liking  for  raspberry -jam 
tart.  And  Harry  would  devour  such  tarts  on  those 
occasions  when  his  father  wished  to  devote  the 
Sunday  to  William  Pitt. 

Initiated  in  this  manner,  little  Harry  became  a 
prodigy  of  learning.  His  father,  not  content  with 
teaching  him  the  piano,  and  some  ideas  of  history, 
made  him  learn  by  heart  the  golden  book  of  the 
Peerage.    If  Harry  were  asked  : 

"  And  who  married  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Dew- 
lap ?  "  he  would  reply  with  assurance,  "  John  Gregg 
Wetherall,  Esquire,  and  disgraced  the  family." 

One  evening,  while  the  father  and  son  were  playing 
peacefully  on  hands  and  knees  upon  the  floor,  a 
gentleman  entered,  and  invited  Mr.  Richmond 
to  take  a  short  walk  with  him  in  the  town. 

My  father  jumped  up  from  his  hands  and  knees,  and 
abused  him  for  intruding  on  his  privacy,  but  afterwards 
he  introduced  him  to  me  as  Shylock's  great-great-great- 


MIS    GENIUS  87 

grandson,  and  said  that  Shylock  was  satisfied  with  a 
pound,  and  his  descendant  wanted  two  hundred  pounds, 
or  else  all  his  body  :  and  this,  he  said,  came  of  the 
emigration  of  the  family  from  Venice  to  England.  My 
father  only  seemed  angry,  for  he  went  off  with  Shylock's 
very  great-grandson  arm-in-arm,  exclaiming,  "  To  the 
Rialto  !  " 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr  Richmond  was  arrested. 

Harry  did  not  know  that  there  were  such  things 
as  prisons  for  debts.  He  became  sad  at  seeing  his 
father  no  more.  Doubtless  his  nurse,  the  faithful 
Mrs.  Waddy,  did  not  miss  an  opportunity  of 
visiting  the  absent  one  ;  but  she  never  allowed 
Harry  to  follow  her.  One  day,  as  she  had  gone  upon 
her  errand  of  mercy,  she  left  the  door  open,  and 
Harry  checked  his  longing  no  more  :  he  ran  after 
her,  feeling  certain  of  overtaking  her  at  the  corner 
of  the  street.  Not  finding  her  outside,  he  continued 
to  walk  on,  expecting  to  arrive  sooner  or  later  at 
Westminster  Abbey,  or  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  Upon 
his  way  he  admired  the  large  shops,  and  the  goods 
displayed.  .  .  .  Then,  towards  sunset,  hunger  struck 
him  like  an  arrow.  .  .  .  He  was  not  the  only  one  in 
this  plight. 

There  was  a  boy  in  ragged  breeches,  no  taller  than 
myself,  standing  tiptoe  by  the  window  of  a  very  large 
and  brilliant  pastry-cook's.  He  persuaded  me  to  go 
into  the  shop  and  ask  for  a  cake.  I  thought  it  perfectly 
natural  to  do  so,  being  hungry  ;  but  when  I  reached  the 


88  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

counter  and  felt  the  size  of  the  shop,  I  was  abashed,  and 
had  to  repeat  the  nature  of  my  petition  twice  to  the 
young  woman  presiding  there. 

"  Give  you  a  cake,  little  boy  ?  "she  said.  "  We  don't 
give  cakes,  we  sell  them." 

"  Because  I  am  hungry,"  said  I,  pursuing  my  request. 

Another  young  woman  came,  laughing  and  shaking 
lots  of  ringlets. 

"  Don't  you  see  he's  not  a  common  boy  ?  he  doesn't 
whine,"  she  remarked,  and  handed  me  a  stale  bun,  say- 
ing, "  Here,  Master  Charles,  and  you  needn't  say  thank 
you." 

"  My  name  is  Harry  Richmond,  and  I  thank  you  very 
much,"  I  replied. 

I  heard  her  say,  as  I  went  out,  "  You  can  see  he's  a 
gentleman's  son."  The  ragged  boy  was  awaiting  me 
eagerly.  "  Gemini !  You're  a  lucky  one,"  he  cried  ; 
"  here,  come  along,  curly-poll."  I  believe  that  I  meant 
to  share  the  bun  with  him,  but  of  course  he  could  not 
be  aware  of  my  beneficent  intentions  ;  so  he  treated  me 
as  he  thought  I  was  for  treating  him,  and  making  one 
snatch  at  the  bun,  ran  off,  cramming  it  into  his  mouth. 
I  stood  looking  at  my  hand.  I  learnt  in  that  instant 
what  thieving  was,  and  begging,  and  hunger,  for  I  would 
have  perished  rather  than  have  asked  for  another  cake. 

Luckily  for  Harry,  he  most  opportunely  met  an 
old  gentleman,  who  in  his  astonishment  wished  to 
know  why  this  pretty  little  boy  was  alone  amongst 
the  crowd.  But  poor  Harry  was  unable  to  reply 
because  of  hunger.  His  tongue  was  not  unloosed 
until  he  had  made  a  splendid  meal  at  the  old 
gentleman's  house.  After  a  glass  of  wine — his  first 
— he  began  to  speak,  and  talked  with  ease  of  his 


HIS    GENIUS  89 

wonderful  father,  of  Nelson  and  Shakespeare  and 
even  of  the  peerage.  .  .  . 

"  By  the  way,  are  you  upon  the  list  of  peers  ?  "  he 
demanded  of  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Well,  then,  I  know  nothing  about  you  !  ' 

Upon  which  the  old  gentleman,  his  wife  and 
daughter  burst  out  laughing.  Then,  passing  from 
one  thing  to  another,  they  ended  by  extracting 
from  the  child  some  details  about  his  family  :  Mr. 
Beltham  was  named,  then  Riversley  Grange.  Mr. 
Bannerbridge,  which  was  the  old  gentleman's  name, 
was  a  solicitor,  and  he  gave  information  to  the 
police.  He  was  also  putting  himself  into  com- 
munication with  Harry's  grandfather,  when  Mrs. 
Waddy  presented  herself  and  energetically  claimed 
the  right  to  have  Harry.  The  only  thing  to  do  was 
to  hand  him  over  to  her. 

It  was  not  in  London  that  Harry  awaited  his 
father's  return,  but  at  the  village  of  Dipwell,  at  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Waddy's  brother-in-law  and  among 
the  good  and  honest  country  folk  who  took  great 
care  of  him.  Besides,  visitors,  neighbours  and  play- 
mates, all  treated  him  with  courteous  consideration 
and  attention,  for  Mrs.  Waddy  gave  it  to  be  under- 
stood that  Harry  was  not  "  a  child  like  the  others." 
A  charming  interlude  this  at  Dipwell !  Harry  was 
hardly    saddened    by    the    announcement    of    his 


90  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

mother's  death.  A  young  tailor  came  from  London 
to  measure  him  for  a  splendid  suit  of  mourning. 
And  Mr.  Richmond,  from  his  mysterious  residence, 
sent  the  child  an  autographed  document  :  the  text 
of  a  prayer  that  he  must  repeat  for  the  repose  of  his 
mother's  soul.  .  .  . 

The  touching  message  just  preceded  Mr.  Rich- 
mond's arrival  at  Dipwell.  He  created  a  sensation 
there  by  arriving  with  postillions  in  advance  of  him 
wearing  crape  rosettes,  as  did  the  horses.  In  his 
son's  name  he  eloquently  thanked  and  rewarded 
the  villagers.  Little  boys  and  girls  obtained  coins 
of  silver  and  gold,  so  that  father  and  son  received 
the  cheers  and  blessings  of  a  grateful  people. 

The  wicked  men  who  had  parted  us  were  no  longer 
able  to  do  harm,  he  said.  I  forgot,  in  my  gladness  at 
their  defeat,  to  ask  what  had  become  of  Shylock's 
descendant. 

Mrs.  Waddy  welcomed  us  when  we  alighted.  Do  not 
imagine  that  it  was  at  the  door  of  her  old  house.  It  was 
in  a  wide  street  opening  on  a  splendid  square,  and  pillars 
were  before  the  houses,  and  inside  there  was  the  enchant- 
ment of  a  little  fountain  playing  thin  as  whipcord, 
among  ferns,  in  a  rock-basin  under  a  window  that  glowed 
with  kings  of  England,  copied  from  boys'  history  books. 
All  the  servants  were  drawn  up  in  the  hall  to  do  homage 
to  me.  They  seemed  less  real  and  living  than  the  wonder 
of  the  sweet-smelling  chairs,  the  birds,  and  the  elegant 
dogs.  Richest  of  treats,  a  monkey  was  introduced  to 
me.  "  It's  your  papa's  whim,"  Mrs.  Waddy  said, 
resignedly  ;  "he  says  he  must  have  his  jester.  Indeed 
it  is  no  joke  to  me."    Yet  she  smiled  happily,  though  her 


HIS    GENIUS  01 

voice  was  melancholy.  From  her  I  now  learnt  that  my 
name  was  Richmond  Roy,  and  not  Harry  Richmond. 
I  said,  "  Very  well,"  for  I  was  used  to  change. 

Before  the  bed  which  was  placed  for  him — a 
beautiful  little  pink  bed,  having  a  crown  over  it — 
Harry  cried  aloud  with  delight  : 

"  Don't  you  like  it,  Mrs.  Waddy  ?  "  I  said. 
She  smiled  and  sighed.    "Like  it?    Oh!  yes,  my  dear, 
to  be  sure  I  do.    I  only  hope  it  won't  vanish." 

Mr.  Richmond,  or  rather  Richmond  Roy,  as  he 
now  designated  himself,  intended  that  his  son 
should  be  educated  like  a  prince.  Lessons  in  boxing, 
pony-riding,  and  Latin  were  duly  given  to  him. 
His  French  lessons  were  entrusted  to  a  French 
governess,  who  was  charged  to  take  special  care  of 
his  pronunciation. 

On  fine  afternoons  I  was  dressed  in  black  velvet  for  a 
drive  in  the  park,  where  my  father  uncovered  his  head 
to  numbers  of  people,  and  was  much  looked  at.  "  It  is 
our  duty,  my  son,  never  to  forget  names  and  persons  ; 
I  beg  you  to  bear  that  in  mind,  my  dearest  Richie,"  he 
said.  We  used  to  go  to  his  opera-box  ;  and  we  visited 
the  House  of  Lords  and  the  House  of  Commons  ;  and  my 
father,  though  he  complained  of  the  decay  of  British 
eloquence,  and  mourned  for  the  days  of  Chatham,  and 
William  Pitt  (our  old  friend  of  the  cake  and  the  raspberry 
jam),  and  Burke,  and  Sheridan,  encouraged  the  orators 
with  approving  murmurs. 

Sometimes  the  child  suffered  from  melancholy  : 
would  he   again  be   suddenly  separated  from  his 


92  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

father,  and  transported  to  an  unknown  place  ? 
Richmond  Roy  vowed  by  the  gods  that  such  a 
disaster  was  impossible,  unless  the  most  terrible 
upheavals  occurred.  And  in  order  to  drive  away  or 
divert  these  gloomy  thoughts  from  the  child's  mind, 
he  would  read  aloud  the  Arabian  Nights  ;  or  what 
was  better  still,  he  would  act  out  the  incidents  for 
him,  and  each  time  with  such  sallies  of  wit,  such 
playful  touches,  such  incomparable  improvisations, 
that  Harry  became,  more  than  ever,  delighted  with 
his  father.  Richmond  Roy  was  adored  by  the 
servants.  Nothing  could  prevent  them  from  loving 
him,  said  Mrs.  Waddy,  who  more  than  anyone  had 
succumbed  to  his  charm.  .  .  . 

When  they  undertook  long  journeys  upon  the 
Continent,  it  seemed  to  the  child  that  they  travelled 
upon  an  enchanted  carpet  ;  like  that  one  in  the 
Arabian  tales.  The  cities  appeared  or  disappeared 
"  as  in  an  animated  book  of  geography,  opening  or 
shutting  at  random."  His  father  met  a  number  of 
acquaintances  everywhere.  At  Venice  they  became 
intimate  with  Colonel  Goodwin  and  his  daughter. 
This  young  lady,  named  Clara,  took  a  fancy  to  Harry. 
She  advised  him,  when  he  grew  up,  to  drop  the 
odious  name  of  Roy.  They  separated.  More  than 
once  afterwards  Clara  was  to  play  an  important 
part  in  Harry's  life. 

When  they  returned  to  London,  they  received 
unexpectedly  a  visit  from  Miss  Dorothy  Beltham, 


HIS    GENIUS  93 

who  was  accompanied  by  Mr.  Bannerbridge.  Harry 
was  overjoyed  at  seeing  his  aunt  again.  But  as 
she  begged  him  to  go  with  her  to  Riversley,  the  lad 
became  sad,  being  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  to 
leave  his  father.  In  the  end  Miss  Dorothy  had  to  go 
away  in  tears,  leaving  Harry  behind. 

The  door  closed  on  them  and  I  thought  it  was  a  vision 
that  had  passed.  But  now  my  father  set  my  heart 
panting  with  questions  as  to  the  terrible  possibility  of  us 
two  ever  being  separated.  In  some  way  he  painted  my 
grandfather  so  black  that  I  declared  earnestly  I  would 
rather  die  than  go  to  Riversley;  I  would  never 
utter  the  name  of  the  place  where  there  was  evil 
speaking  of  the  one  I  loved  dearest.  "  Do  not,  my  son," 
he  said  solemnly,  "  or  it  parts  us  two."  I  repeated  after 
him,  "  I  am  a  Roy  and  not  a  Beltham."  It  was  enough 
to  hear  that  insult  and  shame  had  been  cast  on  him  at 
Riversley  for  me  to  hate  the  name  of  the  place. 

In  order  to  be  compensated  for  the  loss  of  Rivers- 
ley, due  to  Mr.  Beltham's  villainy,  the  father  and  son 
went  away  shortly  afterwards  into  the  country. 
The  curb-chains  and  the  bells  of  their  team  tinkled 
merrily  upon  the  high  road.  The  livery  of  coach- 
man, footman  and  postillion  was  scarlet,  of  the  exact 
shade  worn  by  lackeys  of  the  royal  family. 

We  had  an  extraordinary  day.  People  stood  fast  to 
gaze  at  us  ;  in  the  country  some  pulled  off  their  hats 
and  set  up  a  cheer.  The  landlords  of  the  inns  where  we 
baited  remained  bare-headed  until  we  started  afresh, 
and  I,  according  to  my  father's  example,  bowed  and 
lifted  my  cap  gravely  to  persons  saluting  us  along  the 


94  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

roads.  Nor  did  I  seek  to  know  the  reason  for  this  excess 
of  respectfulness  ;  I  was  beginning  to  take  to  it  natur- 
ally. At  the  end  of  a  dusty  high  road,  where  it  descends 
the  hill  into  a  town,  we  drew  up  close  by  a  high  red  wall, 
behind  which  I  heard  boys  shouting  at  play.  We  went 
among  them,  accompanied  by  their  master.  My  father 
tipped  the  head  boy  for  the  benefit  of  the  school,  and 
following  lunch  with  the  master  and  his  daughter,  to 
whom  I  gave  a  kiss  at  her  request,  a  half-holiday  was 
granted  to  the  boys  in  my  name.  How  they  cheered  ! 
The  young  lady  saw  my  delight,  and  held  me  at  the 
window  while  my  father  talked  with  hers  ;  and  for  a 
long  time  after  I  beheld  them  in  imagination  talking : 
that  is  to  say,  my  father  issuing  his  instructions  and  Mr. 
Rippenger  receiving  them  like  a  pliant  hodman  ;  for  the 
result  of  it  was  that  two  days  later,  without  seeing  my 
kings  of  England,  my  home  again,  or  London,  I  was 
Julia  Rippenger's  intimate  friend  and  the  youngest  pupil 
of  the  school. 

Did  Richmond  Roy  imagine  that  this  school  was 
a  charitable  institution  ?  Perhaps.  .  .  .  Having 
entrusted  his  son  to  Mr.  Rippenger,  he  disappeared, 
and  left  no  trace  behind  him,  and  even  neglected  to 
pay  his  son's  fees. 

Unfortunately,  Surrey  House,  the  school  over 
which  Mr.  Rippenger  ruled  with  a  brutal  hand,  was 
not  an  almshouse  "  either  for  the  sons  of  gentlemen 
of  high  connection,  or  for  the  sons  of  vagabonds." 
Pupils  were  not  kept  there  gratuitously.  After 
having  been  the  privileged  favourite  of  the  principal, 
the  Benjamin  of  the  establishment,  Harry  Richmond 
saw  his  star  wane  and  finally  vanish.     Instead  of 


HIS    GENIUS  95 

drawing  largely  upon  Mr.  Rippenger  for  pocket- 
money,  he  soon  found  he  had  not  even  a  penny.  A 
suit  of  coarse  cloth  was  substituted  for  the  becoming 
one  of  black  velvet.  And  the  birch  and  the  rough 
usage  to  which  he  was  subjected  aggravated  his 
mental  suffering. 

Even  this  could  have  been  borne  if  the  poor 
abandoned  lad  had  occasionally  received  a  letter 
from  his  father.  But  he  had  only  the  ever-faithful 
and  helpful  friendship  of  Mr.  Rippenger's  beautiful 
daughter,  and  the  sympathy  of  his  companions,  as  a 
stimulant  for  his  courage.  His  schoolmates  did  not 
illtreat  him.  In  their  eyes  Harry  was  still  glorified  : 
he  was  always  to  them  the  little  boy  who  was 
welcomed  and  treated  with  almost  royal  honours, 
and  in  honour  of  whom  a  half-holiday  had  been 
granted.  And  even  though  Mr.  Rippenger  publicly 
scoffed  at  impostors  and  charlatans,  and  mani- 
fested his  disgust  for  swindlers  and  their  children, 
Harry's  friends  did  not  desert  him.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  lavished  their  sympathy  upon  him 
and  admired  him  because  he  bore  his  misfortunes 
with  an  imperturbable  dignity.  This  patience, 
which  remained  constant,  this  composure  of  mind 
amidst  misfortune,  gained  for  him  the  kind  attention 
of  little  Temple,  and  the  affectionate  friendship  of 
the  renowned  Walter  Heriot,  the  cricket  champion, 
and  the  best  pupil  in  the  school ;  the  most  hand- 
some and  athletic  figure  ;   the  one  who  dared  make 


96  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

love  to  Julia,  and  who  even  crossed  swords  with  the 
redoubtable  Mr.  Rippenger  himself. 

The  weeks,  months,  and  years  passed  sadly  by, 
and  Harry  Richmond  yearned  to  see  his  father 
again.  But  where  should  he  find  him  ?  He  had  no 
idea.  By  dint  of  fostering  nothing  but  this  desire, 
he  became  as  one  subject  to  hallucinations.  In  the 
class,  with  his  eyes  closed,  he  would  dream  that  he 
was  leaving  for  ever  his  prison  of  "  Surrey  House," 
and  that,  free  to  do  as  he  wished,  he  was  following 
the  one  desire  of  his  heart,  and  seeking  his  father. 

As  no  gaolers  are  incorruptible,  Harry  took 
advantage  of  an  excursion  to  detach  himself  from 
his  schoolfellows,  and  find  a  hiding-place  ;  then, 
without  any  loss  of  time,  betook  himself  towards 
Riversley.  What  did  he  intend  to  do  ?  To  em- 
brace his  aunt,  ask  her  for  information,  grasp  the 
hand  of  the  old  half-caste  butler,  and  then  go  in 
search  of  his  father. 

The  first  part  of  this  plan  was  easy  to  achieve, 
seeing  that  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Riversley 
Grange.  But  Harry  indiscreetly  attached  himself 
upon  the  route  to  a  young  gipsy  girl  named  Kiomi. 
She  was  returning  to  her  tribe,  which  was  camping 
on  the  borders  of  Mr.  Beltham's  estate.  They  had 
no  sooner  arrived  at  Riversley  than  the  gipsies, 
tempted  by  the  chance  of  a  liberal  reward,  ac- 
quainted the  squire  of  the  presence  of  his  grandson  ; 
and  Harry,  who  at  most  expected  but  to  view  the 


HIS    GENIUS  97 

Grange,  was  suddenly  seized  by  a  lady  who  had 
descended  from  a  carriage,  and  whom  he  recognised 
as  his  good  Aunt  Dorothy. 

It  was  thus  that  Harry  Richmond  became  again 
installed  at  Riversley.  It  was  in  the  following 
language  that  the  squire  welcomed  his  grandson  : 

"  Look  here  ;  your  name  is  Harry  Richmond  in  my 
house — do  you  understand  ?  My  servants  have  orders 
to  call  you  Master  Harry  Richmond,  according  to  your 
christening.  You  were  born  here,  sir,  you  will  please  to 
recollect.  I'll  have  no  vagabond  names  here  " — he 
puffed  himself  hot,  muttering,  "  Nor  vagabond  airs 
neither." 

Ill-timed  warnings  !  They  pierced  to  the  quick 
the  young  lad  just  escaped  from  school,  and  who 
burned  with  impatience  to  cast  himself  into  his 
father's  arms.  With  what  superb  scorn  Harry 
received  the  advice  of  the  old  butler  Sewis,  who 
recommended  him,  in  order  to  find  favour  with 
Mr.  Beltham,  to  show  a  keen  interest  in  the  stables, 
and  to  drink  claret  with  the  squire  in  the  evening. 
"  Here's  a  way  of  gaining  a  relative's  affection  !  " 
sighed  Harry.  Nevertheless,  he  was  delighted  not 
to  see  again  his  odious  schoolmaster,  for  Mr.  Bel- 
tham had  paid  off  every  penny  of  Mr.  Rippenger's 
long  account.  The  methods,  the  punctiliousness 
and  the  generosity  of  his  grandfather  impressed 
Harry  very  much. 

As  for  Mr.  Beltham,  he  was  not  slow  to  notice  in 

H 


98  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Harry  his  likeness  to  the  Belthams.  Ah,  yes  !  He 
was  assuredly  of  his  own  race  ;  this  boy,  who  put 
his  horse  so  bravely  at  hedges  and  ditches,  and  who 
kept  his  head  after  dinner  over  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux  ; 
this  healthy,  well-balanced,  impetuous  and  frank 
lad,  the  joy  of  his  old  age  ! 

Thus  I  grew  in  his  favour,  till  I  heard  from  him  that  I 
was  to  be  the  heir  of  Riversley  and  his  estates,  but  on 
one  condition,  which  he  did  not  then  mention. 

This  condition  was  not  in  the  least  inhuman. 
In  short,  Mr.  Beltham  meant  Harry  Richmond  to 
marry  Janet  Ilchester.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the 
squire's  cousin,  who  was  much  less  fortunate  than 
himself ;  Janet  charmed  both  Mr.  Beltham  and  Miss 
Dorothy  by  her  animation,  her  impetuousness,  her 
integrity,  and  her  gallant  behaviour  on  horseback. 
Without  doubt  she  would  have  become  equally  a 
favourite  of  Harry's,  if  she  had  not  at  the  outset 
wounded  his  sensibility. 

In  her  thoughtlessness  she  said  to  him  suddenly  : 

"  Oh  !  dear,  we  are  good  friends,  aren't  we  ?  Charley 
says  we  shall  marry  one  another  some  day,  but  mama's 
such  a  proud  woman  she  won't  much  like  your  having 
such  a  father  as  you've  got  unless  he'd  be  dead  by  that 
time  and  I  needn't  go  up  to  him  to  be  kissed." 

I  stared  at  the  girl  in  wonderment,  but  not  too 
angrily,  for  I  guessed  that  she  was  merely  repeating  her 
brother's  candid  speculations  upon  the  future.  I  said  : 
"  Now  mind  what  I  tell  you,  Janet :  I  forgive  you  this 
once,  for  you  are  an  ignorant  little  girl  and  know  no 


HIS    GENIUS  99 

better.     Speak  respectfully  of  my  father  or  you  never 
see  me  again." 

The  frequent  returns  of  these  quarrels  embittered 
Harry  against  his  cousin.  Janet,  a  thousand  times 
too  proud  to  acknowledge  there'  and  then  her 
mistake,  afterwards  repented.  And  as  she  was  fond 
of  her  cousin — Harry  is  represented  as  a  handsome 
lad — she  sought  Mr.  Beltham,  to  whom  she  related 
her  indiscretion,  and  whom  she  begged  to  obtain 
Harry's  forgiveness.  The  old  squire  immediately 
intervened.  Unhappily,  he  also  lacked  delicacy, 
and  his  rough  treatment  so  wounded  Harry  anew, 
that  he  sought  flight,  suffocating  with  rage,  and 
burning  for  liberty.  He  wandered  into  the  country, 
over  land  and  heath.  Towards  sunset,  the  squire 
became  troubled,  and  repented  of  his  brusque 
dealing  with  his  grandson,  and  despatched  an  express 
messenger  upon  horseback  to  beg  him  to  return. 

I  rode  home  like  a  wounded  man  made  to  feel  proud 
by  victory,  but  with  no  one  to  stop  the  bleeding  of  his 
wounds  ;  and  the  more  my  pride  rose,  the  more  I 
suffered  pain.  There  at  home  sat  my  grandfather, 
dejected,  telling  me  that  the  loss  of  me  a  second  time 
would  kill  him,  begging  me  to  overlook  his  roughness, 
calling  me  his  little  Harry  and  his  heir. 

All  in  vain  !  Harry  listened  with  disdain  to  these 
declarations  of  love  ;  the  old  man's  outbursts  dis- 
pleased him  ;  an  enemy  angered  with  his  father, 
could  have  no  right  to  his  indulgence. 


100  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

So  he  wrestled  to  express  his  hatred  of  my  father 
without  offending  me ;  and  I  studied  him  coldly, 
thinking  that  the  sight  of  my  father  in  beggar's  clothes, 
raising  a  hand  for  me  to  follow  his  steps,  would  draw  me 
forth,  though  Riversley  should  beseech  me  to  remain 
clad  in  wealth. 

With  infinitely  more  perspicacity  than  the  squire, 
Janet,  guided  by  a  woman's  intuition,  perceived  that 
to  be  loved  by  Harry,  she  must  treat  him  as  did  Miss 
Dorothy  or  the  old  butler,  and  never  gainsay  his 
filial  affection.  Some  affectionate  words  left  her 
lips  :  the  result  was  magnetic.  Harry  was  con- 
trite :  he  made  a  confidante  of  his  cousin,  and  told 
her  of  his  aspirations  and  of  his  ever-present 
despondency,  and  that  all-pervading  desire  to  find 
his  father  again  ;  at  the  same  time  he  delighted  her 
by  relating  incidents  of  his  school-life,  by  a  pictur- 
esque account  of  the  merry  tricks  that,  with  Heriot 
and  Temple,  he  had  played  upon  Mr.  Rippenger. 

But  these  outpourings  were  not  sufficient  to  allay 
so  feverish  a  spirit.  For  this  reason  Miss  Dorothy 
invited  young  Temple  to  Riversley.  In  order  to 
divert  her  nephew's  attention,  she  organised  a 
series  of  daily  delights  :  balls,  excursions,  fishing  or 
hunting-parties.  Poor  remedies !  And  besides, 
what  games,  what  presents  or  friends  were  sufficient 
diversion  for  Harry,  after  receiving  an  illustrated 
card  on  St.  Valentine's  Day  ? 


HIS    GENIUS  101 

The  standard  of  Great  Britain  was  painted  in  colours 
at  the  top  ;  down  each  side,  encircled  in  laurels,  were 
kings  and  queens  of  England  with  their  sceptres,  and  in 
the  middle  I  read  the  initials,  a.  f-g.  r.  r.,  embedded 
in  blue  forget-me-nots.  I  could  not  doubt  it  was  from 
my  father.  Riding  out  in  the  open  air  as  I  received  it,  I 
could  fancy  in  my  hot  joy  that  it  had  dropped  out  of 
heaven. 

"  He's  alive  ;  I  shall  have  him  with  me  ;  I  shall  have 
him  with  me  soon  !  "  I  cried  to  Temple.  "  Oh  !  why 
can't  I  answer  him  ?  where  is  he  ?  what  address  ?  Let's 
ride  to  London." 

Temple's  nature  was  more  practical,  and  he 
endeavoured  to  reason  with  his  schoolmate. 

"  Yes,  but,"  said  he,  "if  he  knows  where  you  are, 
and  you  don't  know  where  he  is,  there's  no  good  in  your 
going  off  adventuring.  If  a  fellow  wants  to  be  hit,  the 
best  thing  he  can  do  is  to  stop  still." 

Harry  rejected  this  advice.  On  the  same  day 
he  overheard  some  significant  remarks  spoken  in 
an  undertone  by  his  excellent  neighbours,  Gregory 
and  William  Bulsted.  He  concluded  that  his  father 
must  be  the  man  on  the  Bench.  But  what  was  the 
Bench  ?  When  Temple  was  questioned,  he  pre- 
varicated ;  the  Bench,  why  it  was  a  part  of  London  ! 
.  .  .  Harry  asked  no  more  questions  ;  he  decided 
that  he  would  go  to  London  without  acquainting 
the  family,  and  that  Temple  should  accompany  him. 

Once  more  through  the  streets  of  London — 
streets  innumerable,  and  fantastical,  veiled  with  the 


102  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

vapours  of  a  thick  fog — Harry  Richmond  sought 
his  father.  As  in  the  days  of  his  early  childhood, 
he  went  along  as  in  a  dream,  discerning  nothing  in 
the  fog,  yet  nevertheless,  so  absorbed  in  his  search, 
never  doubting  but  that  he  would  reach  his  father's 
mysterious  habitation,  the  Bench.  .  .  .  They  had 
now  walked  for  many  hours  ;  night  had  fallen  and 
the  fog  became  luminous.  Temple  and  Harry  came 
to  a  place  where  an  immense  crowd  had  assembled. 
Two  or  three  buildings  were  on  fire.  Opposite  to 
these,  the  high  and  sombre  walls  of  a  monument 
were  illuminated  in  the  light  of  the  flames.  A 
common-looking  girl  was  pointing  out  these  walls 
to  her  companion.  "  You  see,"  she  said,  "  the 
Bench  does  not  burn  !  " 

Harry  turned  around  suddenly  and  questioned 
the  two  women  ;  they  informed  him  that  the  Bench 
was  the  debtors'  prison 

As  it  was  necessary  to  await  the  rising  of  the  sun 
in  order  to  visit  the  Bench,  Temple  and  Harry 
wandered  about  in  the  company  of  the  two  girls, 
through  the  muddy  and  deserted  streets.  Both 
lads  were  exhausted  through  want  of  nourishment. 
But  the  bars  and  hotels  were  closed.  Suddenly  one 
of  the  girls  was  accosted  by  her  lover,  named  Joe. 
The  latter,  a  jolly  tar,  promised  the  four  some 
refreshment  if  they  would  come  with  him  to  his 
ship.  The  offer  was  accepted,  as  no  choice  was 
left.     They  huddled  together,   as  well  as  possible 


HIS    GENIUS  103 

in  the  boat,  and  rowed  towards  the  ship.  On  board, 
Harry  had  no  sooner  swallowed  a  glass  of  rum 
than  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Upon  opening  their  eyes,  the  two  friends  realised 
with  astonishment  that  they  were  moving.  They 
raced  up  to  the  bridge  ;  yes,  the  boat  was  in  pro- 
gress ;  it  was  just  leaving  the  estuary  of  the  Thames, 
and  sailing  out  to  sea  !  .  .  .  Their  friend,  Joe, 
the  sailor,  apologised  profoundly.  Having  been 
unable  to  awaken  them  at  an  opportune  moment, 
he  could  henceforward  do  nothing  for  them,  as  the 
sole  master  upon  the  Priscilla  was  the  captain, 
Jasper  Welsh. 

The  captain — oh  !  a  rare  personality,  a  man 
half  serious,  half  humorous,  a  puritan  jack-tar  ! — 
had  reached  his  post  at  the  time  of  setting  sail, 
when  he  was  shown  the  two  sleeping  youths.  They 
slept  unblushingly,  like  two  young  debauchees  who, 
after  an  orgy,  heavily  sleep  away  their  drunkenness  ; 
the  disorder  of  their  clothes  seemed  to  accuse  them 
of  disorderly  conduct.  After  having  reflected  a 
little,  the  captain  resolved  to  inflict  upon  them  a 
penance  for  their  sins  :  he  would  pluck  them  from 
temptation  by  taking  them  with  him  !  .  .  .  And 
as  Captain  Jasper  Welsh  was  a  hard  man,  neither 
Temple  nor  Harry  was  able  to  convince  him  that 
they  were  innocent ;  they  could  not  obtain  per- 
mission to  be  returned  to  their  families.    The  voyage 


104  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

continued.  .  .  .  For  the  sake  of  peace,  after  the 
first  outburst  of  revolt,  the  young  stowaways  sub- 
mitted, but  not  without  reprisals.  At  the  table, 
to  the  horror  of  the  old  puritan,  they  affected  to 
disparage  Holy  Scripture,  to  the  glory  of  Latin  and 
Greek.  .  .  .  The  good  captain  came  near  to  losing 
his  appetite. 

They  at  last  reached  one  of  the  Hanseatic  ports 
of  north  Germany.  Temple  and  Harry,  piloted  by 
Joe,  went  on  shore,  and  in  order  to  obtain  some 
harmless  amusement,  entered  a  theatre.  As  English 
are  to  be  found  everywhere,  they  fell  in  with  Harry's 
old  and  excellent  friends  the  Goodwins.  ...  It 
was  pure  chance.  But  neither  the  colonel  nor  his 
daughter  Clara  realised  this.  "  I  suppose  you're 
going,"  they  said  heedlessly  to  Harry,  as  if  it  were 
something  obvious,  "  to  join  your  father  at  the 
court  of  the  Prince  of  Eppenwelzen-Sarkeld  ?  " 

The  Goodwins  were  no  friends  of  Richmond  Roy. 
What  was  their  distress  on  finding  that  they  had 
spoken  too  hastily,  and  that  but  for  that,  Harry 
would  not  have  known  where  his  father  was ! 
Grieved  at  their  indiscretion,  they  endeavoured  to 
make  reparation,  but  too  late  !  ...  In  vain  they 
pleaded  on  Mr.  Beltham's  behalf,  and  explained  to 
Harry  that  all  his  future  depended  upon  Riversley 
and  upon  his  grandfather,  but  their  eloquence  was 
of  no  avail.  Having  purchased  a  map  of  Germany, 
Harry  wrote  to  his  aunt  and  the  squire,  explaining 


HIS    GENIUS  105 

his  misadventure  ;  then  he  set  out  with  Temple 
in  the  diligence  which  would  deposit  them  some 
leagues  from  Sarkeld.  .  .  . 

They  descended  from  the  diligence,  and  walked 
on  in  the  direction  of  Sarkeld,  when  they  en- 
countered an  amazon.  She  was  a  little  lady 
attended  by  a  tawny-faced  and  great  square- 
shouldered  groom.  She  wore  white  gauntlets,  a 
warm  winter- jacket  of  grey  fur  over  a  riding-habit 
of  the  same  colour.  A  white  boa,  hanging  loose, 
encircled  her  neck  and  her  figure.  A  plume  sur- 
mounted a  pretty  black  felt  hat  with  a  large  brim. 
With  one  hand  on  her  hip,  and  holding  in  the  other 
her  whip  and  reins,  with  some  strands  of  golden 
brown  hair  straying  over  her  flushed  cheeks,  the 
young  girl  appeared  to  be  twelve  or  thirteen  years 
of  age.  Behind  her  rose  some  rocks  and  trees,  high 
silver  firs,  and  the  hoofs  of  her  pony  bathed  in  the 
clear  water  from  a  cascade. 

Was  this  the  right  road  to  Sarkeld  ?  The  girl 
replied  that  it  was.  .  .  .  But  that  this  morning 
everybody  was  going  towards  the  castle  of  Bella 
Vista,  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  where  the  Prince 
of  Eppenwelzen  was  unveiling  the  statue  of  his 
ancestor,  Marshal  Prince  Albert  Wohlgemuth  of 
Eppenwelzen,  whose  name  was  made  immortal  by 
t  the  brilliant  victories  he  gained  during  the  wars 
of  the  seventeenth  century.      What  incited  public 


106  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

curiosity,  and  made  the  occasion  an  important  one, 
was,  that  the  reigning  Prince  of  Eppenwelzen,  who 
was  exceedingly  parsimonious,  had  hesitated  for  a 
long  time  about  erecting  this  statue.  His  sister, 
the  witty  and  whimsical  Margravine  of  Rippau, 
had  laughed  at  him  :  "  You  do  not  wish  it  ? 
"  Ah,  well  !  I  will  order  the  statue  and  have  it 
set  up  in  a  week."  In  fact,  to  the  very  day  the 
statue  was  there.  And  now  they  were  going  to  see 
how  the  Margravine  had  been  able  to  keep  her 
word,  how  an  equestrian  statue  could  have  been 
ordered,  sculptured,  cast  and  delivered  at  Sarkeld, 
and  erected  in  less  than  eight  days. 

The  young  amazon  urged  the  lads  to  postpone 
their  journey  to  Sarkeld  for  a  while.  What  !  one 
of  them  was  Mr.  Richmond  Roy's  son  ?  .  .  .  Oh, 
well  !  Mr.  Richmond  himself  would  most  certainly 
be  present  at  the  ceremony.  .  .  . 

How  charming  she  was,  this  little  stranger, 
prattling  away  in  broken  English  !  She  pointed 
out  the  summit  of  the  hill.  Temple  and  Harry 
followed  her.  .  .  .  And  Harry  marvelled  that  this 
enchantress  should  have  met  him  upon  the  road  to 
Sarkeld,  upon  the  road  which  led  to  his  father  !  .  .  . 

When  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  the  crowd, 
which  was  already  large,  made  way,  respectfully 
saluting  the  Princess.  For  the  young  amazon  was 
none    other    than    Ottilia    Wilhclmina    Frederika 


HIS    GENIUS  107 

Hedwig,  only  child  of  Prince  Ernest  of  Eppenwelzen- 
Sarkeld. 

She  presented  the  two  young  Englishmen  to  her 
aunt,  the  Margravine  of  Rippau,  a  rather  stout 
woman,  whose  eyes  and  lips  were  continually  in 
restless  movement.  The  Margravine  greeted  them 
with  marked  kindness,  when  she  learnt  Harry's 
name,  and  whom  he  sought  at  Sarkeld. 

Around  the  statue,  covered  with  a  huge  white 
awning,  the  police  and  keepers  had  cleared  an  open 
space,  which  was  roped  off.  The  crowd  was  dense 
and  noisy,  but  could  not  silence  the  blare  of  a 
military  band  which  played  in  turns  waltzes  and 
marches. 

Temple  and  Harry  would  have  been  lost  in  the 
crowd  if  Princess  Ottilia  had  not  had  the  gracious- 
ness  to  entrust  them  to  her  English  governess,  Miss 
Sibley,  and  to  lend  them  two  pretty  Hungarian 
horses.  These  attentions  delighted  Harry  im- 
mensely. To  complete  his  happiness,  there  only 
remained  the  finding  of  his  father.  Alas  !  among  so 
many  onlookers  there  was  no  sign  of  Richmond  Roy. 

The  Prince  of  Eppenwelzen,  upon  horseback, 
approached  the  statue.  The  cannon  thundered  a 
volley.  And  while  the  band  broke  forth  into  a 
slow  and  pompous  march,  the  tent  was  drawn 
aside  like  a  curtain. 

I  confess  I  forgot  all  thought  of  my  father  for  a  while  ; 
the  shouts  of  the  people,  the  braying  of  the  brass  instru- 


108  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

ments,  the  ladies  cheering  sweetly,  the  gentlemen  giving 
short  hearty  expressions  of  applause,  intoxicated  me. 
And  the  statue  was  superb — horse  and  rider  in  new 
bronze  polished  by  sunlight. 

The  Marshal  was  acknowledging  the  salute  of  his  army 
after  a  famous  victory  over  the  infidel  Turks.  He  sat 
upright,  almost  imperceptibly  but  effectively  bending 
his  head  in  harmony  with  the  curve  of  his  horse's  neck, 
and  his  baton  swept  the  air  low  in  proud  submission  to 
the  honours  cast  on  him  by  his  acclaiming  soldiery.  His 
three-cornered  lace  hat,  curled  wig,  heavy-trimmed 
surcoat,  and  high  boots,  reminded  me  of  Prince  Eugene. 
No  Prince  Eugene — nay,  nor  Marlborough,  had  such  a 
martial  figure,  such  an  animated  high  old  warrior's 
visage.    The  bronze  features  reeked  of  battle. 

Admiration  was  unanimous.  Immediately  every- 
one rushed  towards  the  Margravine's  carriage  to 
congratulate  her.  Some  bowed  to  her,  others 
kissed  her  hand.  The  noble  lady  smiled,  receiving 
their  homage  with  evident  satisfaction.  The  young 
Englishmen  followed  their  example,  and  Miss 
Sibley  acted  as  interpreter  when  their  turn  came 
to  pass  before  the  Margravine. 

Smiling  cordially,  the  Margravine  spoke,  Miss  Sibley 
translated  : 

"  Her  Royal  Highness  asks  you  if  you  have  seen  your 
father  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

The  Princess  Ottilia  translated  : 

"  Her  Highness,  my  good  aunt,  would  know,  would 
you  know  him,  did  3'ou  see  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  anywhere,"  I  cried. 


HIS    GENIUS  109 

The  Margravine  pushed  me  back  with  a  gesture. 
"  Yes,  your  Highness,  on  my  honour  ;   anywhere  on 
earth  !  " 

She  declined  to  hear  the  translation. 

Poor  Harry  had  to  be  silent.  A  court  poet  began 
to  recite  a  grandiloquent  and  wordy  ode  which 
seemed  endless.  The  performance  wearied  the 
Margravine,  and  she  returned  to  the  attack  : 

"  Her  Highness,"  Miss  Sibley  translated,  "  asks 
whether  you  are  prepared  to  bet  that  your  father  is  not 
on  the  ground  ?  " 

"  Beg  her  to  wait  two  minutes,  and  I'll  be  prepared  to 
bet  any  sum,"  said  I. 

Temple  and  Harry  upon  horseback  inspected  the 
bystanders  who  surrounded  the  statue.  And  when 
the  poet  had  at  last  finished  his  declamation,  and 
he  had  been  coldly  applauded,  Temple  cried  to 
his  friend : 

"  Richie  !  now  let's  lead  these  fellows  off  with  a  tip-top 
cheer  !  " 

Little  Temple  crowed  lustily. 

This  gave  events  a  miraculous  turn. 

The  head  of  the  statue  turned  from  Temple  to  me. 

I  found  the  people  falling  back  with  amazed  exclama- 
tions. I— so  prepossessed  was  I — simply  stared  at  the 
sudden-flashing  white  of  the  statue's  eyes.  The  eyes, 
from  being  an  instant  ago  dull  carved  balls,  were  ani- 
mated. They  were  fixed  on  me.  I  was  unable  to  give 
out  a  breath.  Its  chest  heaved  ;  both  bronze  hands 
struck  against  the  bosom. 


110  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

"  Richmond  !  my  son  !  Richie  !  Harry  Richmond  ! 
Richmond  Roy !  " 

That  was  what  the  statue  gave  forth. 

My  head  was  like  a  ringing  pan.  I  knew  it  was  my 
father,  but  my  father  with  death  and  strangeness,  earth, 
metal,  about  him  ;  and  his  voice  was  like  a  human  cry 
contending  with  earth  and  metal — mine  was  stifled.  I 
saw  him  descend.  I  dismounted.  We  met  at  the  ropes 
and  embraced.  All  his  figure  was  stiff,  smooth,  cold. 
My  arms  slid  on  him. 


This  strange  sight  produced  panic.  Women 
fainted.  Workmen  and  keepers  hurried  towards  the 
statue  to  seize  it.  There  was  a  violent  altercation 
between  the  bronze  statue  and  the  master  of  the 
revels.  As  for  the  Prince  of  Eppenwelzen,  furious 
at  having  been  duped,  he  raved  at  both,  and  then 
rode  away  at  a  gallop  in  the  direction  of  Sarkeld. 
Then,  as  by  a  miracle,  all  around  the  pedestal  the 
crowd  fell  silent,  scattered,  dispersed,  and  vanished  ; 
gentlemen  and  ladies  took  leave  of  the  Margravine 
with  more  hand-kissings  and  reverences ;  soon 
there  remained  upon  the  hill  no  one  but  Princess 
Ottilia,  Miss  Sibley,  the  two  young  Englishmen, 
the  walking  statue,  and  the  Margravine.  The 
latter,  now  that  they  were  alone,  gave  way  to 
abusive  words  and  recriminations.  Richmond  Roy, 
who  was  the  object  of  her  anger,  could  scarcely 
defend  himself ;  a  heavy  coating  of  paint  and 
plaster  paralysed  all  the  muscles  of  his  face.     He 


HIS    GENIUS  111 

received  the  torrent  of  her  abuse  without  wincing. 
Only  as  the  Margravine's  carriage  was  borne  away 
in  a  whirlwind  of  dust  did  he  vow,  not  however 
without  some  trouble,  that  the  noble  lady  should 
never  see  him  again. 

Harry  took  part  in  this  scene  as  one  in  a  dream. 
All  minor  surprises  merged  in  one  general  amaze- 
ment. "  What,"  thought  he,  "  this  is  my  father, 
and  I  am  not  overjoyed  or  grateful  !  "  It  was  vain 
to  press  his  father's  hand  ;  his  once  beloved  parent 
was  no  longer  the  same  man.  Alas  !  this  feeling 
was  quite  natural.  Harry's  idol  had  been  the  gay 
companion  of  his  childhood.  But  years  had  passed 
away,  years  at  school,  and  at  Riversley,  and  now 
Harry  realised,  despite  himself , that  this  too  plausible 
father  was  a  madman  and  a  mountebank.  Harry 
no  longer  felt  the  unaccountable  and  irresistible 
impulse  which  had  drawn  him  to  Sarkeld.  On  the 
contrary,  for  the  first  time  a  mistrust,  dislike  and 
shame  possessed  him.  In  order  to  dispel  this 
vexation,  and  to  regain  Harry's  favour,  all  Rich- 
mond Roy's  affability  was  necessary.  He  displayed 
courtesy  and  paternal  bounty  to  Temple,  and  enter- 
tained both  young  men  with  charming  hospitality  at 
the  castle  which  the  Margravine  had  placed  at  his 
disposal,  so  that  he  might  rehearse  in  secret  his  role 
of  an  equestrian  statue.  By  the  time  that  Rich- 
mond Roy  had  washed  and  arranged  himself  in  an 


112  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

evening-suit,  he  had  completely  reasserted  himself 
over  the  heart  and  mind  of  his  son. 

What  an  extraordinary  being  was  Richmond 
Roy  !  Never  was  there  a  person  who  lived  less  in 
the  past ;  the  present  absorbed  him,  and  the  future 
still  more.  To  demand  of  him  an  account  of  his 
former  doings  was  to  put  him  out  of  patience. 
Provided  that  he  gave  pleasure  and  entranced 
his  hearers,  his  conscience  slept.  .  .  .  For  this 
reason  he  gave  no  explanation  of  his  desertion  of 
Harry  at  school. 

"  Business,  business  !  sad  necessity  !  hurry,  worry — 
the  hounds  !  "  was  his  nearest  approach  to  an  explicit 
answer  ;  and  seeing  I  grieved  his  kind  eyes,  I  abstained. 

Richmond  Roy's  most  profound  regret  was  that 
he  had  failed  to  maintain  the  essential  duty  of  a 
statue,  immobility.  And  what  a  wrench  it  would 
be  to  him  to  exchange  for  the  monotonous  round  of 
London  life,  the  gaieties  of  a  court,  be  it  even  a 
German  court,  and  a  small  one  !  But  becoming 
acquainted  of  Harry's  meeting  with  the  Princess 
Ottilia  he  recovered  his  serenity,  and  with  the  air  of 
a  diplomat,  rubbed  his  hands,  and  declared  that 
since  his  stay  in  Germany  he  had  never  ceased  to 
labour  for  his  son's  welfare.  He  hinted  that  Prin- 
cess Ottilia,  being  of  a  romantic  and  enthusiastic 
disposition,  professed  a  liking  for  English  poetry ; 
that   her  ideal   hero   was  the  English  sailor,  per- 


HIS    GENIUS  113 

sonified  in  Nelson.  Certainly,  the  dreadful  affair 
upon  the  hill  rendered  it  quite  impossible  for 
Richmond  Roy  to  remain  at  Sarkeld.  Nevertheless, 
his  campaign  had  not  been  fruitless.  He  had  made 
the  first  steps  along  the  road  to  triumph.  Upon  the 
morning  of  their  departure,  he  awoke  his  son, 
saying  to  him  with  pride  : 

"  Here,  Richie  " — he  pressed  fresh  violets  on  my  nos- 
trils— ' '  you  have  had  a  morning  visitor.  Quick  out  of  bed, 
and  you  will  see  the  little  fairy  crossing  the  meadow." 

I  leapt  to  the  window  in  time  to  have  in  view  the  little 
Princess  Ottilia,  followed  by  her  faithful  gaunt  groom, 
before  she  was  lost  in  the  shadow  of  the  fir  trees. 

Despite  this  floral  offering,  Harry  determined  to 
set  out  towards  England.  Having  found  his  father 
again  he  thought  of  reconciling  him  to  his  grand- 
father, and  thus  establishing  the  family  peace. 
Nothing  more  inconceivable.  At  Riversley,  Harry 
had  at  first  to  atone  for  his  long  escapade.  He 
affected  to  show  himself  a  "  thoroughbred  "  Beltham, 
and  to  be  more  than  ever  enamoured  of  stables  and 
kennels.  These  artifices  seemed  to  prove  a  success, 
but  the  squire,  though  apparently  relenting,  did  not 
believe  in  the  change  ;  he  knew  too  well  that  Harry's 
affections  belonged  entirely  to  Richmond  Roy. 

I  am  sure  the  poor  old  man  suffered  pangs  of  jealousy  ; 
I  could  even  at  times  see  into  his  breast  and  pity  him. 
He  wanted  little  more  than  to  be  managed  ;  but  a  youth 
when  he  perceives  absurdity  in  opposition  to  him  chafes 

i 


114  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

at  it  as  much  as  if  he  were  unaware  that  it  is  laughable. 
Had  the  squire  talked  to  me  in  those  days  seriously  and 
fairly  of  my  father's  character,  I  should  have  abandoned 
my  system  of  defence  to  plead  for  him  as  before  a  judge. 
By  that  time  I  had  gained  the  knowledge  that  my  father 
was  totally  of  a  different  construction  from  other  men. 
I  wished  the  squire  to  own  simply  to  his  lovable  nature. 
I  could  have  told  him  women  did. 

At  this  point  we  may  mention  that  Richmond 
Roy  had  friends  other  than  Miss  Dorothy  and  the 
faithful  Mrs.  Waddy.  He  continued  to  give  delight 
to  the  fair  sex  even  after  the  age  of  forty.  This  is 
exemplified  at  Bath,  when  he  fascinated  an  heiress 
of  nineteen,  a  young  girl  of  great  wealth,  who  was 
so  enamoured  of  him  that  she  wished  to  marry  him 
then  and  there.  This  absurd  idyll  shocked  polite 
society.  But  Richmond  Roy  had  no  more  desire  for 
a  marriage  than  had  Casanova.  Shy  after  his 
first  disastrous  experience,  he  did  not  accept  the 
young  lady's  hand  which  was  offered  to  him  so 
readily.  Besides — and  it  is  a  characteristic  trait  of 
this  unaccountable  being — money  had  no  more 
hold  upon  Richmond  Roy  than  Richmond  Roy 
upon  money.  His  resources  were  small.  They 
were  reduced  to  an  annuity  which  was  paid  to  him 
half-yearly,  and  which  he  was  obliged  to  squander 
immediately,  as  a  kind  of  protest  against  its  amount. 
During  six  months  of  the  year  he  dragged  out  a 
miserable  existence  ;  during  the  other  six  he  lived 
a  gay  and  merry  life. 


HIS    GENIUS  115 

I  penetrated  his  mystery  enough  to  abstain  from 
questioning  him,  and  enough  to  determine  that  on  my 
coming  of  age  he  should  cease  to  be  a  pensioner,  peti- 
tioner, and  adventurer. 

When  he  came  of  age  Harry  entered  into  posses- 
sion of  seventy  thousand  pounds.  Besides,  he  was 
duly  informed  that  his  grandfather  would  settle 
upon  him  estates  and  money  to  the  value  of  twenty 
thousand  pounds  per  annum,  on  condition  that  he 
would  marry  Janet  Ilchester.  Harry  made  no  reply 
to  this  conditional  offer.  Upon  this,  the  mortified 
squire  was  persuaded  that  a  continental  tour, 
combined  with  serious  study,  would  serve  in  the 
interests  of  Janet.  But  as  he  feared  that  his  grand- 
son would  fall  into  the  hands  of  Richmond  Roy,  he 
gave  Harry  in  charge  of  the  Rev.  Ambrose  Peter- 
borough. A  worthless  precaution,  for  Richmond 
Roy  found  no  difficulty  in  duping  the  simple 
ecclesiastic  :  he  made  a  binding  agreement  with  him, 
so  that  Harry  effected  his  voyage  with  an  all- 
powerful  father  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  tutor  on  the 
other  who  was  reduced  to  the  position  of  honorary 
chaplain. 

■  • 

The  Margravine  of  Rippau  and  Princess  Ottilia 
happened  to  be  staying  at  Ostend  when  the  three 
Englishmen  landed  there.  The  doctors  had  pre- 
scribed sea  air  for  the  young  Princess,  who  had  met 
with  an  accident  while  on  horseback.  Ottilia  and 
Harry  were  much  moved  at  seeing  each  other  again. 


116  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

And  while  they  recounted  with  delight  the  circum- 
stances of  their  first  meeting,  Richmond  Roy 
furtively  watched  their  expressions  and  gestures. 

But  interviews  could  not  be  long  or  effective  upon 
the  sea-front,  on  account  of  the  crowd  and  public 
curiosity.  That  is  the  reason  that  Richmond  Roy 
vanished,  after  having  received  a  blank  cheque 
from  his  son.  He  returned  in  triumph  upon  a  yacht, 
chartered  at  great  expense,  and  fitted  out  so 
magnificently  that  no  refinement  of  comfort  or 
luxury  had  been  omitted,  not  even  the  French  cook, 
whose  task  was  to  save  them  from  the  inconvenience 
of  indigestible  dishes.  The  Margravine,  always 
delighted  with  change,  did  not  conceal  her 
pleasure.  The  voyage  which  was  undertaken — a 
cruise  around  the  coasts  of  France  and  England — 
was  truly  an  enchanted  one. 

A  hammock  had  been  suspended  upon  deck  in 
which  Ottilia  passed  both  day  and  night,  feasting 
her  eyes  upon  the  laughing  seas  ;  and  when  she 
turned  her  gaze  upon  her  companions,  her  eyes 
sparkled  through  pure  delight.  Before  the  low  green 
coasts  of  Devon  she  cried  :  "  That  is  England  !  " 
and  she  expressed  a  wish  to  go  nearer  to  the  coast. 
When  she  saw  some  fisher-folk  mending  their  nets, 
and  some  boys  and  girls  sitting  astride  the  keel  of  an 
upturned  boat,  she  shed  tears.  Was  her  admiration 
for  England  blending  with  her  tenderness  towards 
Harry  ?     One  night,   while  the  yacht  was  sailing 


HIS    GENIUS  117 

merrily  before  the  wind,  a  night  when  the  sea  was 
smooth  and  phosphorescent,  her  eyelids  closed. 
Her  hand,  which  had  wandered  over  the  silken 
coverlet,  came  to  the  edge  of  the  hammock,  and 
touched  Harry's  hand.  And  the  Princess  held  it 
softly  until  she  fell  asleep.  .  .   . 

When  the  yachting  tour  was  over,  all  was 
changed  ;  in  a  little  city  of  Wiirtemberg  they  met 
Prince  Ernest  of  Eppenwelzen-Sarkeld,  and  his 
nephew  Prince  Otto,  a  captain  of  the  Austrian 
Lancers.  A  vigilant  chaperon,  Baroness  Turckems, 
took  charge  of  Princess  Ottilia.  But  Prince  Ernest, 
who  had  not  forgotten  the  fraud  practised  upon  him 
at  Bella  Vista,  and  who  still  had  bitter  memories  of 
the  false  statue,  demanded  apologies  from  Richmond 
Roy,  which  were  straightway  refused.  They  parted 
coldly  and  without  the  customary  adieux. 

When  Harry,  with  his  father  and  the  ever-present 
Mr.  Peterborough,  arrived  before  the  summit  upon 
which  is  erected  the  family  residence  of  the  Hohen- 
zollerns,  he  saw  the  Princess's  attendant  riding 
towards  him  :  the  great  and  good-natured  Schwartz, 
with  a  military  salute,  placed  in  his  hand  a  bouquet 
of  roses.  .  .  . 

May  a  man  write  of  his  foolishness  ? — tears  rushed  to 
my  eyes.  Schwartz  was  far  behind  us  when  my  father 
caught  sight  of  the  magical  flowers. 

'Come!'    said  he,   glowing,    "we    will    toast   the 
Hohenstaufens  and  the  Hohenzollerns  to-night,  Richie." 


118  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Later,  when  I  was  revelling  in  fancies  sweeter  than  the 
perfume  of  the  roses,  he  pressed  their  stems  reflectively, 
unbound  them,  and  disclosed  a  slip  of  crested  paper. 
On  it  was  written  : 

"  Violets  are  over." 

Plain  words  ;  but  a  princess  had  written  them,  and 
never  did  so  golden  a  halo  enclose  any  piece  of  human 
handiwork. 

Though  Prince  Ernest  had  begun  by  asking  for 
apologies,  he  did  not  obstinately  demand  them. 
The  separation  of  Harry  and  Ottilia  was  not 
permanent.  Besides,  Richmond  Roy,  a  subtle 
hunter,  who  knew  all  the  ways  of  the  field,  kept 
upon  the  scent  of  the  princely  family.  His  victims, 
Ottilia  and  Harry,  became  an  easy  prey  to  his  designs 
on  account  of  their  youth,  their  ingenuousness,  the 
power  of  their  mutual  love.  By  an  alternation  of 
liberty  and  constraint,  of  meetings  and  partings,  of 
intimate  talks  and  silences,  he  governed  them 
with  a  master  hand,  and  disciplined  them  with  such 
skill  that  they  did  not  even  rebel  against  their 
suffering.  Princess  Ottilia  became  little  by  little  the 
only  thought  in  Harry's  life,  the  arbiter  of  his 
conduct.  She  provoked  in  him  a  desire  for  study. 
One  day,  near  Ischl,  in  the  Tyrol,  Harry  proposed 
another  cruise.    Ottilia  replied  : 

"  When  I  am  well  I  study.    Do  not  you  ?  " 
"  I  have  never  studied  in  my  life." 
"  Ah,  lose  no  more  time.     The  yacht  is  delicious 
idleness,  but  it  is  idleness." 


HIS    GENIUS  119 

This  discreet  reproof  effected  a  sudden  change. 
Harry  settled  himself  not  far  from  Hanover,  in  an 
old  university  town,  so  gloomy  and  preoccupied 
that  the  very  buildings  and  pavements  seemed  to 
dispute  upon  some  knotty  problem  in  metaphysics  or 
jurisprudence.  The  atmosphere  of  this  town 
oppressed  Richmond  Roy.  He  solaced  himself  by 
organising  great  banquets  for  Harry's  fellow- 
students.  Then,  when  he  wearied  of  this,  he  went 
away  to  Sarkeld,  and  there,  with  genius  and  irresis- 
tible eloquence,  he  discoursed  to  Prince  Ernest  upon 
a  thousand  industrial  or  financial  schemes  which 
would  enrich  him.  For  example,  the  Prince 
possessed  upon  his  estates  beds  of  coal  undeveloped 
through  want  of  capital.  What  more  easy  than  to 
furnish  His  Royal  Highness  with  the  necessary 
funds  ?  And  Richard  Roy  sold  Bank  stock  belong- 
ing to  Harry.  .  .  . 

And  this  was  not  all :  the  Prince  ought  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  working  of  coal-mines.  Then 
Richmond  Roy  took  him  to  England  where,  during 
more  than  a  month,  he  surprised  and  astounded 
him,  uniting  pleasure  with  business  affairs,  and 
visiting  with  him  the  immense  mines  which  were 
the  property  of  Mr.  Beltham.  On  this  occasion  the 
Prince  was  astonished  to  learn  that  Harry  Richmond 
would  one  day  inherit  such  a  vast  mining  district. 
His  Highness  declared  that  Harry  needed  but  a  little 
to  be  as  brilliant  a  "  parti  "  as  any  in  Europe.    He 


120  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

conveyed  his  enthusiasm  in  a  letter  to  his  sister,  the 
Margravine.  The  latter,  as  an  outcome  of  the 
Prince's  polite  message,  most  graciously  invited 
Harry  to  visit  her. 

Poor  Margravine  !  She  could  not  reconcile  her- 
self to  the  presence  and  the  tedious  arguments  of 
Doctor  Julius  von  Karsteg,  a  university  bear  whom 
the  Princess  Ottilia  had  made  her  Aristotle. 

The  learned  professor  was  the  worst -tempered 
man  in  Germany.  Relying  on  the  fame  of  his 
scholarship,  his  republican  opinions,  and  his  ascend- 
ancy over  Princess  Ottilia,  he  was  not  sparing  of 
harsh  words  to  any  of  the  Margravine's  guests  who 
had  the  misfortune  to  displease  him.  One  evening, 
after  dinner,  he  took  Harry  Richmond  into  his  study, 
and  there,  brusquely,  amid  the  acrid  vapours  from 
his  pipe,  he  said  to  him  :  "  You  are  either  a  most 
fortunate  or  a  most  unfortunate  young  man  !  " 

"  You  are  fortunate  if  you  have  a  solid  and  adven- 
turous mind  :  most  unfortunate  if  you  are  a  mere 
sensational  whipster. 

"  Aim  your  head  at  a  star — your  head  ! — and  even  if 
you  miss  it  you  don't  fall.  It's  that  light  dancer,  that 
gambler,  the  heart  in  you,  my  good  young  man,  which 
aims  itself  at  inaccessible  heights,  and  has  the  fall — 
somewhat  icy  to  reflect  on  !  Give  that  organ  full  play 
and  you  may  make  sure  of  a  handful  of  dust.  Do  you 
hear  ?  It's  a  mind  that  wins  a  mind.  That  is  why  I 
warn  you  of  being  most  unfortunate  if  you  are  a 
sensational  whipster." 


HIS    GENIUS  121 

Harry  Richmond  had  no  need  of  this  reproof  to 
understand  that  he  was  playing  a  fool's  part  at 
Sarkeld.  Was  it  not  folly  to  pretend  to  the  hand  of 
a  hereditary  princess,  when  one  is  not  only  a 
commoner  but  also  the  son  of  a  man  of  doubtful 
birth  ?  All  the  more  so  as  the  Princess,  matured  and 
instructed  by  the  counsels  of  her  tutor,  seemed  to 
grow  more  reserved.  One  day  when  she  was  on 
horseback,  she  had  allowed  her  hand  to  hang  list- 
lessly by  the  side  of  her  saddle,  and  Harry  took  the 
hand  in  his.  Sighing  deeply,  but  without  seeking  to 
remove  it,  she  had  murmured  : 

"  No,  not  that,  my  friend! '  The  quiet  but  firm 
command  admitted  of  no  reply,  and  Harry  had 
nothing  to  do  but  release  the  little  hand.  .  .  . 

In  the  meanwhile,  Richmond  Roy  reappeared, 
more  optimistic  than  ever,  and  bringing  with  him 
two  magnificent  pedigree  hunters  which  he  intended 
for  the  stables  at  Sarkeld.  He  had  advanced  to 
Prince  Ernest,  for  the  working  of  his  coal-mines,  a 
trifle  of  some  thousands  deducted  from  Harry's 
fortune.  In  the  meantime  his  lawyers  were  busy  pro  - 
curing  evidence  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  duke  of  royal 
blood.  The  struggle  would  soon  be  definitely  ended — 
at  Harry's  expense  be  it  understood — and  Richmond 
Roy's  birth  would  be  recognised  as  legitimate.  What 
ramblings  !  What  outbursts  of  enthusiasm  !  .  .  . 
Harry  listened  to  his  eloquent  outpourings  unmoved. 
How  little  he  shared  his  father's  feelings  ! 


122  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Eager  to  enjoy  once  more  the  quiet  of  study,  he 
buried  himself  in  the  old  German  university  town. 
But  an  anonymous  letter  upset  his  plans  :  Princess 
Ottilia  needed  his  help.  Harry  set  out  immediately 
for  the  Margravine's  villa.  What  had  happened  ? 
Simply  this,  Princess  Ottilia  was  to  marry  Prince 
Otto. 

The  laurels  of  Bella  Vista  shone  radiant  in  the 
sun.  A  fiery  haze  crowned  the  tops  of  the  pines. 
Harry  Richmond  galloped  along  the  brow  of  a  hill 
on  this  blinding  afternoon.  He  caught  sight  of  his 
rival,  Prince  Otto,  crossing  the  lake  in  company 
with  Princess  Ottilia.  And  goaded  by  jealousy,  his 
temples  throbbing,  he  urged  his  horse  towards  the 
shore.  Suddenly,  when  but  half-way,  Prince  Otto 
emerged  from  between  the  branches  of  a  group  of 
chestnuts. 

He  was  visibly  out  of  humour.  Alone,  he  was 
climbing  on  foot  the  slopes  of  the  hill.  He  could  not 
conceal  his  concern  at  the  sight  of  the  young  English- 
man, who  with  haggard  eyes  and  flushed  face 
resembled  a  man  suffering  from  sunstroke.  As  the 
Prince  regarded  Harry's  horse  with  admiration,  the 
latter  with  great  generosity  offered  him  the  hunter 
as  a  gift.  The  other  hesitated,  muttered  some  words, 
then  finished  by  saying  that  he  would  willingly  ride 
it  as  far  as  the  castle  to  seek  a  little  ice  for  Harry. 
Then  he  leaped  into  the  saddle  and  disappeared. 


HIS    GENIUS  123 

Soon  Harry  had  reached  the  side  of  the  lake.  The 
Princess,  distraught  and  absent-minded,  supported 
by  the  tree  and  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground, 
did  not  hear  him  approach.  She  had  just  refused 
Prince  Otto.  .  .  .  But  hardly  had  she  recognised 
Harry  when  her  heart  overflowed  with  a  great 
delight.  She  smiled  divinely.  Losing  control  of  her 
feelings  through  surprise  and  pleasure,  she  made 
no  attempt  to  silence  the  furious  young  lover  who 
assailed  her  with  passionate  words. 

"  You  love  me  ?  "  she  said. 

"You  have  known  it  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes  !  " 

"  Forgiven  me  ?    Speak,  Princess." 

"  Call  me  by  my  name." 

"  My  own  soul  !   Ottilia  !  " 

Ottilia  could  not  dissemble.  That  very  evening 
she  told  her  father  of  her  engagement  to  Harry 
Richmond. 

Prince  Ernest  of  Eppenwelzen  demanded  an 
interview  with  her  lover  ;  and  as  one  who  is  not  free 
to  give  vent  to  his  anger,  he  spoke  haughtily,  coldly 
but  courteously  :  in  his  eyes  the  engagement  did 
not  exist. 

At  the  close  of  the  interview  Harry  received  a 
challenge  from  Prince  Otto,  mad  with  rage  at  what 
he  regarded  as  a  slight  and  a  trick.  They  fought 
with  swords.  Prince  Otto  was  wounded  in  the  arm 
and  wished  to  continue  the  fight  with  pistols.    The 


124  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

seconds  consented  to  this,  and  in  his  turn  shortly 
afterwards  Harry  Richmond  staggered,  struck  by 
a  bullet.  ... 

Princess  Ottilia  came  to  know  of  Harry's  plight 
through  an  anonymous  letter  which  was  couched  in 
such  ambiguous  terms  as  to  make  her  fear  that  an 
assassination  had  been  planned.  She  felt  that  duty 
called  her  immediately  to  Harry's  bedside.  Reckless 
of  paternal  anger,  disdainful  of  scandal,  she  set  out 
for  the  old  university  town. 

With  what  surprise  and  grief  did  she  learn  that 
Harry  was  wounded  in  a  duel !  .  .  .  A  duel !  .  .  . 
That  barbarous  custom  was  in  her  opinion  character- 
istic of  brainless  savages.  Had  her  beloved  taken 
an  example  from  "  brutes  armed  with  fangs  and 
claws  "  ?  It  was  incredible.  Her  refusal  to  believe 
hurt  Harry  more  than  anything  ;  especially  as  he 
reproached  himself  for  having  compromised  her  in 
the  eyes  of  the  public.  He  begged  so  earnestly  that 
she  would  return  to  Sarkeld,  that  she  dared  not 
refuse  him.  Besides,  his  convalescence  was  already 
far  advanced,  and  Princess  Ottilia  realised  that  she 
was  quite  useless  in  this  student's  lodging  that 
Richmond  Roy  filled  with  the  noise  of  his  tirades. 

Since  this  rash  action  was  not  noised  abroad, 
Prince  Ernest,  with  infinite  common  sense,  decided 
to   respect   his   daughter's   independence.     As    for 


HIS    GENIUS  125 

Harry  Richmond,  the  best  way  of  getting  rid  of 
him  seemed  to  be  to  admit  him  to  the  Court  upon  a 
slight  acquaintanceship,  and  then  to  embarrass  him 
by  certain  forms  of  etiquette,  which  would  make 
him  realise  his  irremediable  inferiority,  and  the 
futility  of  his  pursuit.  .  .  . 

Prince  Ernest  rigorously  adopted  this  method. 
He  received  Harry  Richmond  cordially !  He 
allowed  him  entrance  to  Court  and  palace  !  He 
even  permitted  him  to  dine  seated  between  Princess 
Ottilia  and  the  Margravine  !  But  the  moment  a 
noble  guest  arrived  in  the  person  of  Prince  Hermann, 
Prince  Ernest's  cousin,  Harry  Richmond  was 
directly  relegated  to  his  proper  place.  Fetes  were 
given,  and  fireworks  were  displayed  in  Sarkeld  gay 
with  flags.  At  Court,  Prince  Hermann  danced 
several  times  with  Princess  Ottilia.  Harry  Rich- 
mond turned  white  with  rage,  but  no  one  took 
notice  of  him,  least  of  all  Prince  Hermann. 

So  little  did  he  think  of  my  presence,  that  returning 
from  a  ride  one  day,  he  seized  and  detained  the  Princess's 
hand.  She  frowned  with  pained  surprise,  but  unresist- 
ingly, as  became  a  young  gentlewoman's  dignity.  Her 
hand  was  rudely  caught  and  kept  in  the  manner  of  a 
boisterous  wooer — a  Harry  the  Fifth  or  a  lusty  Petruchio. 
She  pushed  her  horse  on  at  a  bound. 

Prince  Hermann  did  the  same  without  releasing 
the  Princess.  Both  soon  disappeared  from  Harry's 
view,  who  remained  behind,  unable  to  endure  the 
sight  any  longer. 


126  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Some  minutes  later,  Prince  Hermann  returned 
towards  the  young  Englishman,  and  in  a  princely 
tone  said  : 

"  Mr.  Richmond,  permit  me  to  apologise  to  you.  I 
have  to  congratulate  you,  it  appears.  I  was  not  aware. 
— However,  the  Princess  has  done  me  the  favour  to 
enlighten  me.  How  you  will  manage,  I  can't  guess,  but 
that  is  not  my  affair.  I  am  a  man  of  honour  ;  and,  on 
my  honour,  I  conceived  that  I  was  invited  here  to  decide, 
as  my  habit  is,  on  the  spot,  if  I  would,  or  if  I  would  not. 
There  !  I  have  been  deceived — deceived  myself,  let's 
say.  Very  well.  But  enough  said  ;  I  thought  I  was  in 
a  clear  field.  We  are  used  to  having  our  way  cleared  for 
us,  '  nous  autres.'  "  The  man's  outrageously  royal  way 
of  wooing,  in  contempt  of  minor  presences  and  flimsy 
sentiment,  made  me  jealous  of  him,  notwithstanding 
his  overthrow. 

Full  of  resentment,  with  wounded  heart,  and 
wishing  to  be  exposed  no  more  to  new  insults,  Harry 
unburdened  himself  to  his  father.  The  latter 
recommended  him  to  end  matters  boldly :  equivo- 
cations could  not  last  for  ever ;  Harry  must  beg 
the  favour  of  a  meeting ;  the  Princess  would  solemnly 
plight  her  troth  ;  upon  a  given  signal  the  Rev. 
Peterborough  would  present  himself  ;  promises  and 
rings  once  exchanged,  Harry  would  set  sail  fearlessly 
for  England.  .  .  . 

Such  was  Richmond  Roy's  plan.  Harry  adopted 
it  without  murmur.  He  acquainted  the  Princess 
that  he  would  expect  her  in  the  palace  library  ;  then 


HIS    GENIUS  127 

he  dined  merrily  with  Prince  Ernest,  announcing 
that  he  should  leave  on  the  morrow  for  Riversley. 


The  first  things  noticed  in  the  library — a  long, 
low  and  sombre  room,  voluminously  and  richly 
hung  with  draperies — were  rows  of  classical  books, 
and  bronze  busts  of  some  philosophers.  A  second 
glance  revealed,  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  room,  a 
sofa,  upon  which  were  piled  yellow-covered  volumes, 
French  novels,  the  Prince's  light  reading. 

A  valet  drew  the  Venetian  shutters  and  the 
curtains,  placed  lamps  upon  the  writing-desk  and 
upon  the  mantel-shelf,  then  left.    Harry  was  alone. 

Towards  midnight  he  rose,  hearing  the  rustle  of 
a  silken  robe  in  the  corridor.  And  the  Princess 
appeared. 

Standing  with  a  silver  lamp  raised  in  her  right  hand 
to  the  level  of  her  head,  as  if  she  expected  to  meet 
obscurity.  A  thin  blue  Indian  scarf  muffled  her  throat 
and  shoulders.  Her  hair  was  loosely  knotted.  The 
lamp's  full  glow  illumined  and  shadowed  her.  She  was 
like  a  statue  of  Twilight. 

One  of  the  volumes  upon  the  sofa  fell  to  the  floor, 
and  the  Princess  shuddered  ;  but  she  soon  smiled 
at  her  childish  alarm. 

She  was  restless,  strongly  moved,  but  otherwise 
calm.  She  did  not  hide  from  Harry  that  she  had 
come  solely  to  please  him  : 


128  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

"  Be  comforted,"  she  said  ;  "  it  is  your  right  to  bid 
me  come,  if  you  think  fit." 

I  told  her  that  it  was  my  intention  to  start  for  England 
in  the  morning  ;  that  this  was  the  only  moment  I  had, 
and  would  be  the  last  interview  :  my  rights,  if  I 
possessed  any,  and  I  was  not  aware  that  I  did,  I  threw 
down. 

"  You  throw  down  one  end  of  the  chain,"  she  said. 

"  In  the  name  of  heaven,  then,"  cried  I,  "  release 
yourself." 

She  shook  her  head.    "  That  is  not  my  meaning." 

The  conversation  languished  :  Ottilia  felt  herself 
bound  by  invisible  coils  ;  and  Harry,  ashamed  of 
any  dishonesty,  had,  however,  too  much  pride,  too 
much  "amour-propre  "  to  utter  the  first  tender  and 
spontaneous  words  which  would  have  comforted  the 
Princess.  At  last,  by  a  happy  thought,  he  said  that 
they  would  soon  be  separated,  and  that  he  desired 
a  gift :  the  Princess's  glove. 

She  made  her  hand  bare  and  gave  me,  not  the  glove, 
but  the  hand. 

"  Ah  !  but  this  I  cannot  keep." 

"  Will  you  have  everything  spoken  ?  "  she  said,  in  a 
tone  that  would  have  been  reproachful  had  not  tender- 
ness melted  it.  "  There  should  be  a  spirit  between  us, 
Harry,  to  spare  the  task.  You  do  keep  it,  if  you  choose. 
I  have  some  little  dread  of  being  taken  for  a  madwoman, 
and  more — an  actual  horror  of  behaving  ungratefully  to 
my  generous  father.  He  has  proved  that  he  can 
be  indulgent,  most  trusting  and  considerate  for  his 
daughter,  though  he  is  a  prince  ;  my  duty  is  to  show 
him  that  I  do  not  forget  I  am  a  princess.     I  owe  my 


HIS    GENIUS  129 

rank  allegiance  when  he  forgets  his  on  my  behalf,  my 
friend  !  You  are  young.  None  but  an  inexperienced 
girl  hoodwinked  by  her  tricks  of  intuition,  would  have 
dreamed  you  superior  to  the  passions  of  other  men.  I 
was  blind  ;  I  am  regretful — take  my  word  as  you  do  my 
hand — for  no  one's  sake  but  my  father's.  You  and  I 
are  bound  fast ;  only,  help  me  that  the  blow  may  be 
lighter  for  him  ;  if  I  descend  from  the  place  I  was  born 
to,  let  me  tell  him  it  is  to  occupy  one  I  am  fitted 
for,  or  should  not  at  least  feel  my  Family's  deep  blush  in 
filling.  .  .  ." 

I  pressed  my  lips  to  her  hand. 

In  our  silence  another  of  the  fatal  yellow  volumes 
thumped  the  floor. 

She  looked  into  my  eyes  and  asked : 

"  Have  we  been  speaking  before  a  witness  ?  " 

So  thoroughly  had  she  renovated  me,  that  I  accused 
and  reproved  the  lurking  suspicion  with  a  soft  laugh. 

"  Beloved  !  I  wish  we  had  been." 

"  If  it  might  be,"  she  said,  divining  me  and  musing. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

She  stared. 

"  How  ?    What  do  you  ask  ?  " 

The  look  on  my  face  alarmed  her.  I  was  breathless 
and  colourless,  with  the  heart  of  a  hawk  eyeing  his  bird 
— a  fox,  would  be  the  truer  comparison,  but  the  bird  was 
noble,  not  one  that  cowered.  Her  beauty  and  courage 
lifted  me  into  high  air,  in  spite  of  myself,  and  it  was  a 
huge  weight  of  greed  that  fell  away  from  me  when  I 
said : 

"  I  would  not  urge  it  for  an  instant.  Consider — if  you 
had  just  plighted  your  hand  in  mine  before  a  witness  !  " 

"  My  hand  is  in  yours  ;  my  word  to  you  is  enough." 

"  Enough.  My  thanks  to  heaven  for  it  !  But  con- 
sider— a  pledge  of  fidelity  that  should  be  my  secret 

K 


130  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

angel  about  me  in  trouble  and  trial ;  my  wedded  soul ! 
She  cannot  falter,  she  is  mine  for  ever,  she  guides  me, 
holds  me  to  work,  inspirits  me  ! — she  is  secure  from 
temptation,  from  threats,  from  everything — nothing  can 
touch,  nothing  move  her,  she  is  mine  !  I  mean,  an 
attested  word,  a  form,  that  is — a  betrothal.  For  me  to 
say — my  beloved  and  my  betrothed  !  You  hear  that  ? 
Beloved  !  is  a  lonely  word  : — betrothed  !  carries  us 
joined  up  to  death.  Would  you  ? — I  do  but  ask  to  know 
that  you  would.  To-morrow  I  am  loose  in  the  world, 
and  there's  a  darkness  in  the  thought  of  it  almost  too 
terrible.  Would  you  ? — one  sworn  word  that  gives 
me  my  bride,  let  men  do  what  they  may  !  I  go  then 
singing  to  battle — sure ! — Remember,  it  is  but  the 
question  whether  you  would." 

"  Harry,  I  would,  and  will,"  she  said,  her  lips  shudder- 
ing— "  wait  " — for  a  cry  of  joy  escaped  me — "  I  will — 
look  you  me  in  the  eyes  and  tell  me  you  have  a  doubt  of 
me." 

I  looked  :  she  swam  in  a  mist. 

Urged  on  by  the  warmth  and  recklessness  of  his 
passion,  Harry  declared  that  he  never  doubted  her, 
and  that  he  renounced  all  pledges. 

To  be  clear  in  my  own  sight  as  well  as  in  hers,  I  made 
mention  of  the  half-formed  conspiracy  to  obtain  her 
plighted  troth  in  a  binding  manner.  It  was  not  necessary 
for  me  to  excuse  myself  ;  she  did  that,  saying,  "  Could 
there  be  a  greater  proof  of  my  darling's  unhappiness  ? 
I  am  to  blame." 

As  she  was  about  to  leave,  the  Princess  asked 
Harry  if  his  father  was  still  up,  or  if  he  had  gone  to 
bed. 


HIS    GENIUS  131 

"  I  will  see  him.  I  have  treated  you  ill.  I  have 
exacted  too  much  patience.  The  suspicion  was  owing 
to  a  warning  I  had  this  evening,  Harry  ;  a  silly  warning 
to  beware  of  snares  ;  and  I  had  no  fear  of  them,  believe 
me,  though  for  some  moments,  and  without  the  slightest 
real  desire  to  be  guarded,  I  fancied  Harry's  father  was 
overhearing  me.  He  is  your  father,  dearest :  fetch  him 
to  me.  My  father  will  hear  of  this  from  my  lips — why 
not  he  ?  Ah  !  did  I  suspect  you  ever  so  little  ?  I  will 
atone  for  it  ;  not  atone,  I  will  make  it  my  pleasure  ;  it  is 
my  pride  that  has  hurt  you  both.  O  my  lover  !  my 
lover  !  Dear  head,  dear  eyes  !  Delicate  and  noble  that 
you  are  !  my  own  stronger  soul  !  Where  was  my  heart  ? 
Is  it  sometimes  dead,  or  sleeping  ?  But  you  can  touch 
it  to  life.  Look  at  me — I  am  yours.  I  consent,  I  desire 
it  ;  I  will  see  him.  I  will  be  bound.  The  heavier  the 
chains,  oh  !  the  better  for  me.  What  am  I,  to  be  proud 
of  anything  not  yours,  Harry  ?  and  I  that  have  passed 
over  to  you  !    I  will  see  him  at  once." 

A  third  in  the  room  cried  out : 

"  No,  not  that — you  do  not  !  " 

The  tongue  was  German  and  struck  on  us  like  a  roll 
of  unfriendly  musketry  before  we  perceived  the  enemy. 
"  Princess  Ottilia  !  you  remember  your  dignity  or  I 
defend  you  and  it,  think  of  me  what  you  will !  " 

Baroness  Turckems,  desperately  entangled  by  the 
sofa-covering,  rushed  into  the  ray  of  the  lamps  and  laid 
her  hand  on  the  bell-rope.  In  a  minute  we  had  an  alarm 
sounding,  my  father  was  among  us,  there  was  a  mad 
play  of  chatter,  and  we  stood  in  the  strangest  nightmare- 
light  that  ever  ended  an  interview  of  lovers. 

The  room  was  in  flames,  Baroness  Turckems  plucking 
at  the  bell-rope,  my  father  looking  big  and  brilliant. 

"  Hold  hand  !  "  he  shouted  to  the  frenzied  Baroness. 

She  counter-shouted  ;  both  of  them  stamped  feet  ; 
the  portico  sentinel  struck  the  butt  of  his  musket  on  the 


132  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

hall-doors  ;  bell  answered  bell  along  the  upper  gal- 
leries. 

"  Foolish  woman,  be  silent  !  "  cried  my  father. 

"  Incendiary  !  "  she  half-shrieked. 

He  turned  to  the  Princess,  begging  her  to  retire,  but 
she  stared  at  him,  and  I  too,  after  having  seen  him 
deliberately  apply  the  flame  of  her  lamp  to  the  curtains, 
deemed  him  mad.  He  was  perfectly  self-possessed,  and 
said,  "  This  will  explain  the  bell !  "  and  fetched  a  deep 
breath,  and  again  urged  the  Princess  to  retire. 

Peterborough  was  the  only  one  present  who  bethought 
him  of  doing  fireman's  duty.  The  risk  looked  greater 
than  it  was.  He  had  but  to  tear  the  lighted  curtains 
down  and  trample  on  them.  Suddenly  the  Baroness 
called  out,  "  The  man  is  right !  Come  with  me,  Princess  ; 
escape,  your  Highness,  escape  !  And  you,"  she  ad- 
dressed me — "  you  rang  the  bell,  you  !  " 

"  To  repair  your  error,  Baroness,"  said  my  father. 

"  I  have  my  conscience  pure  ;  have  you  ?  '  she 
retorted. 

He  bowed  and  said,  "  The  fire  will  also  excuse  your 
presence  on  the  spot,  Baroness." 

"  I  thank  my  God  I  am  not  so  cool  as  you,"  said  she. 

"  Your  warmth  " — he  bent  to  her — "  shall  always  be 
your  apology,  Baroness." 

Seeing  the  curtains  extinguished,  Ottilia  withdrew. 
She  gave  me  no  glance. 

All  this  occurred  before  the  night-porter,  who  was 
going  his  rounds,  could  reach  the  library.  Lacqueys  and 
maids  were  soon  at  his  heels.  My  father  met  Prince 
Ernest  with  a  florid  story  of  a  reckless  student,  either 
asleep  or  too  anxious  to  secure  a  particular  volume,  and 
showed  his  usual  consideration  by  not  asking  me  to 
verify  the  narrative.  With  that,  and  with  high  praise  of 
Peterborough,  as  to  whose  gallantry  I  heard  him  deliver 
a  very  circumstantial  account,  he,  I  suppose,  satisfied 


HIS    GENIUS  133 

the  Prince's  curiosity,  and  appeased  him,  the  damage 
being  small  compared  with  the  uproar.  Prince  Ernest 
questioned  two  or  three  times,  "  What  set  him  ringing  so 
furiously  ?  "    My  father  made  some  reply. 

Harry  Richmond  received  neither  violets  nor  roses 
upon  his  departure ;  in  vain  he  turned  towards  the 
windows  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Ottilia  :  he  only  saw 
the  misty  panes. 

However,  Richmond  Roy  wTas  in  high  glee,  as  was 
his  custom  when  he  played  an  important  part.  It  is 
true  that  he  had  rendered  a  service  to  the  Princess 
when  he  extinguished  the  burning  curtains  ;  for 
Ottilia  was  not  the  girl  to  run  away  for  a  menace, 
and  the  constant  ringing  of  the  Baroness  had  not 
intimidated  her,  and  there  was  nothing  less  than  a 
fire  needed  to  justify  the  Princess's  presence  at  that 
hour  in  the  library. 

But  I  felt  humiliated  on  Ottilia's  behalf,  and  enraged 
on  my  own.  And  I  had,  I  must  confess,  a  touch  of  fear 
of  a  man  who  could  unhesitatingly  go  to  extremities,  as 
he  had  done,  by  summoning  fire  to  the  rescue.  He 
assured  me  that  moments  such  as  those  inspired  him,  and 
were  the  pride  of  his  life,  and  he  was  convinced  that,  upon 
reflection,  "  I  should  rise  to  his  pitch."  He  deluded 
himself  with  the  idea  of  his  having  foiled  Baroness 
Turckems,  nor  did  I  choose  to  contest  it,  though  it  struck 
me  that  she  was  too  conclusively  the  toiler.  .  .  .  And  I 
had  not  the  best  of  consciences — I  felt  my  hand  would 
be  spell-bound  in  the  attempt  to  write  to  the  Princess, 
and  with  that  sense  of  incapacity  I  seemed  to  be  cut 
loose  from  her,  drifting  back  into  the  desolate  days 


134  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

before  I  saw  her  wheeled  in  her  invalid  chair  along  the 
sands  and  my  life  knew  sunrise. 

Harry's  forebodings  were  realised ;  he  never 
summoned  up  courage  to  write  to  Princess  Ottilia  ; 
the  pen  fell  from  his  hand  when  he  remembered  the 
tragi-comic  conclusion  of  their  last  interview. 

Why,  therefore,  did  he  not  abandon  this  chimerical 
project  of  marrying  a  hereditary  princess  ?  Perhaps 
the  secret  lay  in  his  double  nature  :  his  mother's 
and  father's  blood  were  part  of  him  without  min- 
gling. The  one  part,  so  much  of  a  Beltham,  that  he 
loved  the  beautiful  estate  of  Riversley,  where  one 
could  be  truly  one's  self,  having  no  role  to  play, 
and  breathing  an  atmosphere  neither  too  unreal 
nor  subtle.  The  other  part,  so  much  of  a  Richmond, 
that  he  disdained  the  rustic  and  rural  life  which  they 
all  led  at  his  grandfather's.  .  .  .  Harry  knew  not 
for  what  he  washed,  because  he  was  unwilling  to 
renounce  anything.  He  desired  at  the  same  time  the 
principality  of  Eppenwelzen-Sarkeld  and  the  man- 
sion of  Riversley.  Such  are  the  contradictions  of  a 
young  sentimentalist. 

In  short,  his  painful  experiences  in  Germany  had 
not  yet  opened  his  eyes.  Although  glad  to  find  in 
Janet  Ilchester  an  excellent  comrade,  gay,  frank 
and  cordial,  his  feeling  never  went  beyond  friendship. 

She  did  not  raise  a  spark  of  poetical  sentiment  in  my 
bosom.     She  had  grown  a  tall  young  woman,  firmly 


HIS    GENIUS  135 

built,  light  of  motion,  graceful  perhaps  ;  but  it  was  not 
the  grace  of  grace  :  the  grace  of  simplicity,  rather.  .  . 
Upon  what  could  she  possibly  reflect  ?  She  had  not  a 
care,  she  had  no  education,  she  could  hardly  boast  an 
idea — two  at  a  time  I  was  sure  she  had  never  entertained. 
The  sort  of  wife  for  a  fox-hunting  lord,  I  summed  up, 
and  hoped  he  would  be  a  good  fellow. 

He  did  not  suspect  for  one  moment  that  this 
young  girl  had  a  heart,  and  that  this  heart,  beating 
only  for  Mr.  Beltham  and  himself,  had  some  claim 
for  consideration.  He  unscrupulously  thrust  upon 
her  the  most  thankless  tasks. 

It  was  Janet  who  was  to  announce  to  the  squire 
the  news  of  Harry's  engagement  to  Princess  Ottilia  ; 
it  was  Janet  who  was  to  appease  the  touchy  old 
man,  who  did  not  wish  to  see  a  foreigner  in  his 
house,  nor  any  German  grandchildren.  Janet  so  far 
sacrificed  herself  as  to  imply  that  she  had  refused  her 
cousin,  because  she  preferred  Heriot  or  Temple. 

Another  service  which  Janet  rendered  at  that 
time  was  the  hiding  of  the  papers  when  they 
referred  to  the  doings  of  the  "  very  celebrated  Mr. 
Richmond  Roy."  She  carried  the  papers  to  Mr. 
Beltham  and  prevented  him  from  reading  them  by 
alleging  that  they  reeked  with  anti-Tory  leaders. 
The  squire  was  smilingly  obedient.  But  Harry  was 
in  a  state  of  fear  when  he  learned  that  his  grand- 
father's name,  his  own  and  Princess  Ottilia's  were 
frequently   mentioned   in   the   papers,   which  con- 


136  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

tained  Richmond  Roy's  intrigues  at  the  Court  of 
Sarkeld  as  the  most  recent  and  most  fruitful  exploit 
of  this  adventurer,  who,  after  having  beguiled  the 
heiress  of  Riversley,  had  endeavoured  to  obtain  for 
his  son  a  wife  of  royal  blood. 

The  squire  would  have  immediately  broken  off 
the  engagement  between  Princess  Ottilia  and  Harry, 
if  he  had  known  that  she  had  been  tricked,  as 
had  his  daughter  Marian.  But  he  did  not  know 
that  Richmond  Roy  had  taken  part  in  the  tour,  and 
continued  to  believe  that  the  Rev.  Peterborough  had 
been  Harry's  only  companion  during  these  two  years 
of  study.  His  grandson  allowed  him  to  keep  to 
this  error,  not  daring  to  tell  him  the  truth. 

One  day,  at  the  table,  the  Rev.  Peterborough 
declared  that  in  Germany  he  was  less  of  a  tutor  to 
Harry  than  of  a  private  chaplain.  .  .  .  And  the 
squire  still  smiled  at  this  candid  avowal,  when 
Janet  broke  out  in  astonishment  : 

"  Oh,  now  I  understand !  It  was  his  father  !  Harry 
proclaiming  his  private  chaplain  !  " 

The  squire's  face  reddened.  Divining  a  plot,  he 
turned  a  terrible  look  upon  his  grandson,  and  was 
silent.  After  the  meal,  he  shut  himself  up  with 
Peterborough,  upon  whom  he  heaped  reproaches  and 
insults  ;  and  while  tormenting  his  victim  he  drew 
from  him  the  real  state  of  affairs  upon  the  voyage. 
At  the  end  of  the  interview  Harry  was  asked  to 


HIS   GENIUS  137 

render  an  account  of  his  expenses — "  Why  not  ?  ' 
replied  the  young  man  in  a  defiant  tone.     And  he 
wrote   to   his   bankers   demanding   his   bank-book 
without  delay. 

Really  Harry  did  not  know  himself  how  his 
banking  account  stood.  He  had  entrusted  his 
father  with  a  cheque-book,  and  Richmond  Roy 
drew  from  his  son's  deposit  account  as  he  wished. 
It  was  in  this  manner  that  the  guests  of  the  Prince 
of  Eppenwelzen  had  paid  their  bills. 

Upon  opening  the  bank-book  the  squire  experi- 
enced a  suffocating  sensation.  What  he  saw  was 
enormous,  monstrous  ;  and  Harry  shared  the  feeling 
with  him  when  he  looked  at  the  book. 

Since  our  arrival  in  England,  my  father  had  drawn 
nine  thousand  pounds.  The  sums  expended  during  our 
absence  on  the  Continent  reached  the  perplexing  figures 
of  forty-eight  thousand.  I  knew  it  too  likely,  besides, 
that  all  debts  were  not  paid.  Self — self — self  drew  for 
thousands  at  a  time  ;  sometimes,  as  the  squire's  con- 
vulsive forefinger  indicated,  for  many  thousands  within 
a  week. 

Harry  Richmond  was  ruined.  Of  his  material 
fortune  but  very  little  remained.  And  the  squire, 
thinking  over  the  wanton  waste,  paled  pitifully. 
He  shook  himself  from  the  state  of  stupor  to  curse 
furiously  his  grandson's  folly,  and  the  roguery  of 
Richmond  Roy.  His  wild  complaints,  his  impre- 
cations and  anathemas,  rose  to  a  paroxysm  worthy 
of  an  ancient  Hebrew  prophet ;  and  as  he  launched 


138  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

out  into  a  flow  of  words,  there  is  no  knowing  to 
what  lengths  he  would  have  gone  if  Janet,  Miss 
Dorothy  and  Captain  Bulsted,  a  neighbour  who  had 
married  the  beautiful  Julia,  daughter  of  Rippenger 
the  schoolmaster,  had  not  interposed. 

The  squire  realised  grumblingly  that  it  was  not  right 
to  vent  his  anger  upon  an  inexperienced  lad.  Better, 
decidedly,  to  interrogate  the  guilty  one.  But  receive 
at  Riversley  that  hateful,  poisonous  creature !  Never ! 
He  would  meet  him  at  Captain  Bulsted's  house. 

The  two  irreconcilable  enemies  had  not  crossed 
swords  since  that  far-off  night  when  Richmond  Roy 
came  to  take  his  son  away  from  Riversley.  And  the 
squire,  upon  the  approach  of  another  struggle, 
experienced  an  almost  uncontrollable  repugnance 
and  anger. 

It  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bulsted  that  the 
meeting  took  place.  Richmond  Roy  and  his  son 
were  seated  in  a  carriage,  while  Mr.  Beltham  was 
on  horseback.  From  afar  Richmond  Roy  had  seen 
his  father-in-law,  and  rising,  stood  bare-headed  in 
the  carriage  ;  while  the  squire,  ill  at  ease,  crushed 
his  hat  down  upon  his  head. 

"  Mr.  Beltham,  I  trust  I  see  you  well." 

"  Better,  sir,  when  I've  got  rid  of  a  damned  un- 
pleasant bit  o'  business." 

"  I  offer  you  my  hearty  assistance." 

"  Do  you  ?  Then  step  down  and  come  into  my 
bailiff's." 


HIS    GENIUS  139 

"  I  come,  sir." 

My  father  alighted  from  the  carriage.  The  squire  cast 
his  gouty  leg  to  be  quit  of  his  horse,  but  not  in  time  to 
check  my  father's  advances  and  ejaculations  of  condo- 
lence. 

"  Gout,  Mr.  Beltham,  is  a  little  too  much  a  proof  to  us 
of  a  long  line  of  ancestry." 

His  hand  and  arm  were  raised  in  the  form  of  a  splint 
to  support  the  squire,  who  glared  back  over  his  cheek- 
bone, horrified  that  he  could  not  escape  the  contact,  and 
in  too  great  pain  from  arthritic  throes  to  protest. 

Happily,  Harry  ran  to  his  grandfather's  aid. 
And  Mr.  Beltham  and  Richmond  Roy  entered  the 
cottage  together. 

A  sardonic  smile  was  seen  on  the  squire's  face  when 
he  came  out  again  after  the  conference.  But 
Richmond  Roy  did  not  appear  out  of  countenance. 
Far  from  it ;  he  had  deeply  deplored  the  enormous 
expense,  but  begged  the  squire  to  estimate  the  value 
of  a  royal  princess.  Ought  not  Harry  to  hold  his 
place  worthily  at  the  Court  of  Eppenwelzen- 
Sarkeld  ?  Was  it  not  necessary  to  grant  extra- 
ordinary sums  to  defray  the  expenses  of  being  thus 
represented  ?  For  the  remainder  Richmond  Roy 
had  only  drawn  out  the  sums  disputed  in  order  to 
make  greater  increase.  The  joint  expenses  of 
father  and  son  were  but  a  particle  of  the  fortune. 
As  for  that  mass  of  money  invested  in  several 
industrial  and  mining  enterprises,  which  would 
bring  in  far  more  than  the  small  English  rentals  or 


140  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

consols,  that  was  safe  enough.  Besides,  the  capital 
still  existed  ;  and  if  they  would  accord  him  but  a 
reasonable  delay,  sufficient  time  to  realise  the  money 
without  too  many  risks,  Richmond  Roy  would  under- 
take upon  his  honour  to  restore  the  money  to  his  son. 
The  squire  fixed  a  limit  of  two  months  only. 

One  would  think  that  Richmond  Roy,  in  such 
a  critical  position,  would  have  devised  some  way  of 
obtaining  the  money.  But,  having  no  notion  of 
danger,  difficulty  stimulated  him  like  an  intoxicant. 
At  this  period  his  pomp  and  splendour  reached  their 
zenith.  This  was  truly  the  apogee  of  his  extra- 
ordinary career.  He  dazzled  the  highest  society  of 
London  by  his  display,  satiated  as  it  was  by 
luxury.  The  most  renowned  and  most  eccentric 
lords  of  the  realm  dared  not  rival  in  muni- 
ficence this  insensate  genius  who  revelled  in  the 
most  dazzling  displays.  He  gave  three  sumptuous 
balls,  to  which  he  invited  all  that  London  could 
supply  in  the  way  of  persons  distinguished  either  by 
merit  or  by  birth.  He  indulged  in  the  rarest  and 
most  costly  caprices  ;  he  dreamed  of  setting  the 
fashion  in  sedan-chairs,  and  ordered  two  dozen  of 
them  for  himself  and  friends.  And,  despite  the 
scandal,  he  displayed  a  charm,  a  gift  to  please,  and 
an  irresistible  skill  in  eloquence  ;  so  that  certain 
embassies,  and  even  some  of  the  most  exclusive 
houses  of  the  aristocracy,  opened  their  doors  to  him. 


HIS    GENIUS  141 

Wherever  he  appeared,  his  presence  excited  such 
lively  comment,  that  the  journals  printed  each  day 
some  remark  upon  the  coming  marriage  between 
Mr.  Harry  Richmond  and  Princess  Ottilia  of  Eppen- 
welzen-Sarkeld.  On  the  other  hand,  the  judicial 
world  was  in  a  tumult.  Richmond  Roy's  lawyers, 
Dettermain  and  Newson,  were  striving  hard  to 
prove  that  their  client's  mother,  the  beautiful 
Anastasia  Dewsbury,  had  secretly  married  a  prince 
of  royal  blood.  They  produced,  in  support  of  their 
evidence,  musty  certificates,  testimonials,  discoloured 
portraits,  and  love-letters  in  faded  ink  and  on  paper 
yellow  with  age.  If  Richmond  Roy  could  establish 
his  case,  would  he  be  recognised  as  a  member  of  a 
reigning  dynasty  ?  This  problem  formed  the  chief 
topic  of  the  day.  Bets  were  made  upon  his  chances. 
The  frequenters  of  clubs  spoke  of  nothing  else. 

The  young  Marquis  of  Edbury  invented  a  plan 
for  making  Richmond  Roy  dine  with  another 
pretender,  a  big  fat  City  merchant,  half-insane,  who, 
declaring  that  he  was  of  Bourbon  origin,  maintained 
that  he  was  Louis  XVII  escaped  from  Temple 
prison.  An  infinite  number  of  tales  were  reported 
about  the  meeting  of  these  two  half-witted  mono- 
maniacs. They  asserted  that  the  self-styled  Louis 
XVII,  who  by  the  way  was  heated  with  wine,  had 
exhibited  before  the  company  certain  marks, 
altogether  conclusive  proofs  of  his  origin,  and  defied 
Richmond  Roy  to  do  as  much.    The  latter,  with  that 


142  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

irony  which  always  won  him  the  sympathy  of 
scoffers,  had  replied : 

"  Certainly,  sir,  it  is  an  admirable  and  roomy  site, 
but  as  I  am  not  your  enemy,  I  doubt  if  I  shall  often 
have  the  opportunity  to  behold  it  !  " 

Richmond  Roy  at  this  time  lived  in  a  magnificent 
hotel,  very  near  that  to  which  he  had  brought 
Harry  after  his  stay  at  Dipwell.  Assisted  by  his 
valet  Tollingly,  and  the  faithful  Mrs.  Waddy,  he 
received  his  secretaries,  treasurers,  tailors,  perfumers, 
jesters  and  parasites  ;  he  conferred  with  journalists, 
distributed  help  to  the  poor,  and  organised  at  last 
what  he  called  his  grand  parade  ;  and  naturally 
cast  to  the  winds  all  the  money  he  had  borrowed. 
"What  a  whirlwind!"  groaned  Mrs.  Waddy.  To 
crown  all,  Richmond  Roy  could  not  tolerate 
questionings.  Every  economical  scheme  angered 
him  as  though  it  were  cowardice.     He  said  : 

"  I  have  heard  of  men  who  lost  heart  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  and  if  they  had  only  hung  on,  with  gallant  faith 
in  themselves,  they  would  have  been  justified  by  the 
result.  Faith  works  miracles.  At  least  it  allows  time 
for  them." 

And  at  another  time,  when  Harry  paid  his  father's 
creditors,  he  said  : 

"  I  detest  the  disturbance  that  you  make  about 
my  debts  !  " 

And  yet  this  mad-cap  sometimes  gave  good 
counsel.  ...  It  was  he  who  urged  his  son  to  offer 


HIS    GENIUS  143 

himself  as  Liberal  candidate  for  Chippenden  at  the 
forthcoming  election.  It  was  due  to  the  devoted  co- 
operation of  his  father  that  Harry  was  elected.  .  .  . 
We  really  saw  then  of  what  Richmond  Roy  was 
capable.  He  placed  at  his  son's  service  all  his 
personal  gifts,  his  versatility,  his  resource,  his  zeal, 
his  inexhaustible  vigour  and  his  power  of  sugges- 
tion ;  he  heaped  ridicule  upon  his  son's  antagonists  ; 
he  bewitched  the  electors  and  their  wives,  so  that 
Harry  was  chosen  by  a  large  majority.  And 
Richmond  Roy,  triumphant  from  this  victory, 
persuaded  himself  that  Harry  was  henceforth 
Princess  Ottilia's  equal. 

At  last,  as  if  the  gods  had  granted  protection  to 
the  most  culpable  prodigality,  at  the  moment  even 
when  Richmond  Roy's  creditors  had  lost  patience 
with  him,  and  wished  to  put  him  in  prison,  a 
theatrical  effect  was  produced  ;  for  a  messenger, 
carrying  miraculous  news,  had  been  to  his  house. 
And  they  learned  that  Dettermain  and  Newson 
had  received  from  an  unknown  source  the  sum  of 
twenty-five  thousand  pounds  to  be  placed  at  the 
disposition  of  their  client,  Mr.  Richmond  Roy.  No 
condition  encumbered  the  providential  gift ;  no 
note  explained  it.  The  anonymous  donor  simply 
expressed  a  desire  that  henceforth  Mr.  Richmond 
Roy  would  abandon  all  action  against  the  State. 

Never  was  a  stipulation  more  useless.  Without 
feeling   too   elated    upon    his    extraordinary    luck, 


144  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Richmond  Roy  pocketed  the  money,  and  credited 
his  son  with  the  amount  agreed  upon.  After  which, 
having  acquainted  the  squire,  he  gave  himself  no 
trouble  about  finding  his  benefactor,  because  this 
opportune  subsidy  and  the  half-yearly  annuity 
which  he  had  received  had  to  his  mind  an  identical 
origin.  In  other  words,  this  is  what  he  believed  : 
the  Government,  intimidated  by  Richmond  Roy's 
pertinacity,  were  showing  signs  of  yielding,  and  were 
endeavouring  to  bribe  him.  This  amount  of  money 
was  tantamount  to  a  tacit  acknowledgment  of  his 
claims.  But  what  did  it  matter !  Richmond  Roy, 
certain  of  success,  refused  to  beat  a  retreat.  .  .  . 

Was  this  assumption  true  ?  Harry  could  not 
grasp  it.  He  succeeded,  however,  in  discovering 
the  person  who  had  acted  as  intermediary  for  the 
unknown  donor  :  he  was  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Bannerbridge, 
the  same  gentleman  who  had  formerly  rescued  the 
little  Harry  Richmond  from  the  streets  of  London. 
Unhappily,  when  Harry  presented  himself  at  the 
lawyer's  house,  he  found  that  Mr.  Bannerbridge  had 
just  died,  and  no  one  could  inform  him  concerning 
the  money.  .  .  . 

In  the  meanwhile  the  squire  demanded  Harry's 
presence  at  Riversley.  The  old  man  declared 
himself  satisfied,  since  the  twenty-five  thousand 
pounds  had  been  paid  within  the  allotted  time  ; 
nevertheless,  he  begged  Harry  to  consult  with  him 
before  making  any  other  decision.    The  young  man 


HIS    GENIUS  145 

obeyed  his  grandfather's  summons ;  but  instead  of 
alighting  at  Riversley,  and  going  direct  to  the 
Grange,  he  had  a  great  desire  to  see  his  old  schoolfellow 
Heriot,  who  lived  at  Durstan,  not  far  from  Riversley. 
Harry  remained  some  considerable  time  with  his 
excellent  friend,  and  only  left  Durstan  at  nightfall. 

A  refreshing  wind  blew  across  the  heath.  Harry 
preferred  to  go  on  foot  over  the  moor  which  separates 
Durstan  from  Riversley.  Suddenly  four  men 
rushed  upon  him,  whom  he  recognised  as  gipsies ; 
they  attacked  him  with  blows  of  fists  and  bludgeons, 
and  left  him  upon  the  ground  for  dead. 

These  vagabonds  were  seeking  a  personal  ven- 
geance. Deceived  by  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
they  had  taken  Harry  Richmond  for  their  enemy. 
When  they  had  found  out  their  error,  they  returned 
to  their  victim,  raised  him  with  care,  and  entrusted 
him  to  the  women  of  their  tribe.  The  latter,  by 
their  attentions,  restored  him  to  life,  and  kept  him 
in  their  tent  for  several  weeks. 

As  soon  as  he  had  sufficiently  recovered,  Harry 
Richmond  informed  his  father  of  his  whereabouts, 
rather  than  the  squire,  or  Captain  Bulsted,  who 
would  have  taken  steps  against  the  gipsies.  So 
Richmond  Roy  came  alone  to  the  tent  where  lay  his 
son.  Realising  how  weak  he  was,  but  that  he  was 
cured  of  his  wounds,  he  took  him  to  the  seaside  in 
the  hope  that  the  air  from  the  Channel  would  hasten 
his  convalescence. 


146  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Princess  Ottilia  at  that  time  received  a  painful 
and  heartrending  letter,  a  letter  from  a  father  in 
distress  who  wept  for  his  stricken  son.  It  was  one 
of  those  pressing  and  passionate  appeals  which 
seem  to  come  from  the  heart,  and  which  awake  an 
echo  in  the  least  sensitive  soul.  The  tender  and 
faithful  Princess  was  deeply  moved.  She  was  alone, 
separated  from  Baroness  Turckems.  Her  father 
was  staying  in  Paris.  Her  aunt,  the  Margravine, 
had  been  summoned  to  the  seignory  of  Rippau. 
Besides,  her  very  dear  governess,  formerly  Miss 
Sibley,  who  had  become  the  wife  of  a  Herr  von 
Dittmarsch,  confirmed  the  bad  news  she  had  received 
about  Harry.  How  could  the  Princess  suspect  a 
new  trap  ?  She  hesitated  no  more  than  after  the 
duel  between  Harry  and  Prince  Otto.  She  left  in 
company  with  Frau  von  Dittmarsch,  and,  as  if  by 
chance,  the  first  person  to  salute  her  upon  the 
landing-stage  at  the  Isle  of  Wight  was  Harry 
Richmond,  certainly  pale  and  thin,  but  quite  alive. 
...  It  seemed  to  the  Princess  that  a  trap-door  was 
drawn  from  under  her.  .  .  . 

Thus  begins  the  last  part  of  the  romance,  more 
stormy  and  nerve-racking  than  the  last  act  of  a 
tragedy.  Almost  all  the  personages,  our  old  friends 
from  Riversley,  London,  and  Sarkeld,  come  together 
in  the  little  port  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  join  in  an 
astonishing  and  picturesque  imbroglio,  like  that 
which  sometimes  terminates  Shakespeare's  comedies. 


HIS    GENIUS  147 

And  there  once  more  we  meet  the  chief  figures  of 
the  drama,  pell-mell,  crowded  together  upon  a  small 
stage  lighted  by  the  sinister  glare  of  Richmond 
Roy  :  old  Squire  Beltham,  Janet  Ilchester  and  Miss 
Dorothy,  all  alarmed  by  Harry's  mysterious  accident ; 
Prince  Ernest  arrived  in  haste  from  Paris ;  Prince 
Hermann  specially  despatched  by  the  Margravine  to 
save  the  situation ;  and  in  addition  to  these  principal 
actors  useful  supernumeraries  such  as  Temple  and 
the  Goodwins.  All  these  varied  beings  swarm 
together  and  beat  about  as  birds  taken  in  the  net 
of  an  implacable  hunter.  These  magnificent  chapters 
seem  to  celebrate  the  glory  of  Richmond  Roy,  the 
natural  son  of  an  actress  and  of  a  prince  of  royal 
blood  ;  a  magician  and  master-mountebank.  .  .  . 

Mountebank  !  This  word  is  not  the  one  with 
which  to  startle  so  clever  a  man,  proud  in  having  at 
his  mercy  the  Prince  of  Eppenwelzen-Sarkeld.  .  .  . 
Harry  storms  in  vain  against  the  ignoble  trick  which 
has  made  him  unworthy  of  Princess  Ottilia  and  lost 
him  her  love.  Richmond  Roy,  smiling  with  a 
superior  air,  will  not  listen  to  the  young  man, 
declaring  that  in  spite  of  all  he  will  make  him  happy, 
that  it  is  already  too  late  to  withdraw.  What  could 
be  more  evident  ?  Prince  Ernest  realises  that  he 
is  powerless.  Upon  the  first  sign  of  revolt, 
Richmond  Roy  would  let  loose  against  him  all  the 
tongues  of  the  Press,  that  Press  so  greedy  for 
scandal  and  already  so   knowingly  primed :    the 


148  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

honour  of  the  House  of  Eppenwelzen  and  the  young 
Princess's  reputation  would  suffer  much  more  than 
by  an  alliance  with  Harry  Richmond,  heir  to  a 
prodigious  fortune,  member  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  soon,  without  doubt,  to  be  connected  with 
the  royal  family  of  England.  Not  being  able  to 
effect  an  honourable  retreat  His  Royal  Highness 
accepts  the  situation.  He  capitulates,  and  consents 
to  the  marriage  between  Harry  and  Ottilia.  .  .  . 

Alas  !  of  what  avail  are  Harry's  entreaties  and 
invectives  !  And  what  does  it  matter  though  Janet 
Ilchester,  having  taken  the  Princess  under  her 
protection,  scolds  her,  rebukes  her,  almost  keeps 
her  imprisoned  and  prevents  her  from  seeing  Harry 
in  public,  or  even  from  receiving  him  !  What  does 
it  matter  though  Prince  Hermann,  angry  and  full  of 
pride,  turns  his  back  upon  Richmond  Roy  !  .  .  . 
Weak  threats  and  vain  boasts  !  .  .  .  Richmond 
Roy  is  not  to  be  so  easily  appalled,  and  laughs  at 
these  childish  efforts  of  resistance.  So  much  worse 
for  these  pigmies  if  they  have  come  to  cast  them- 
selves into  his  snares  !  Now  that  he  has  a  hold  upon 
them  he  intends  to  keep  them.  The  hour  of  his 
triumph  has  sounded.  It  is  necessary  that  the 
whole  affair  should  be  magnificent  and  memorable. 
In  order  that  a  day  in  the  history  of  the  English 
nation  should  be  signalised,  and  that  it  should  serve 
as  a  lesson  to  sovereigns  and  their  people. 

Thus,  when  the  squire  demands  an  interview  of 


HIS    GENIUS  149 

him,  Richmond  Roy  has  no  intention  of  making  his 
escape.  He  visits  the  proud  old  man.  He  boasts 
of  having  kept  his  promise,  despite  the  misery  and 
persecutions  he  has  suffered,  since  that  winter's  night 
when,  driven  from  Riversley,  he  was  obliged  to  bear 
away  Harry  in  his  arms.  Let  the  squire  go  and 
demand  the  Princess's  hand  from  Prince  Ernest  ! 
The  affair  is  already  well  advanced,  and  Mr.  Beltham 
has  nothing  more  to  do  than  to  endow  his  grand- 
children with  a  suitable  sum. 

Let  us  follow  Richmond  Roy  and  his  son  ! 
Following  them  into  the  unpretentious  hotel  where 
they  are  to  join  Mr.  Beltham,  Janet  Ilchester  and 
Miss  Dorothy,  we  will  take  part  in  that  which 
Meredith  himself  calls  : 

"The  scene  in  the  fullest  of  their  blood  and  brain 
under  stress  of  a  fiery  situation."  1 

What  are  the  squire's  schemes  ?  Why  is  he  so 
strangely  interested  in  the  furnishing  of  twenty-five 
thousand  pounds  which  were  mysteriously  handed 
over  by  the  solicitors  Dettermain  and  Newson  ? 
Richmond  Roy,  as  amazed  as  ourselves  by  this  piece 
of  retrospective  curiosity,  avows  that  he  is  totally 
ignorant  of  the  donor ;  that  he  presumes  the 
subsidy  was  furnished  by  the  Government ;  and 
that  he  is  of  this  opinion,  because  the  intermediary 
of  the   anonymous   person   was   no   other  than   a 

1  See  the  letter  of  the  22nd  of  July,  1887,  cited  in  Chapter  IV. 


150  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

certain  Mr.  Bannerbridge,  exceedingly  well  known 
in  official  circles.  .  .  . 

How  troubled  is  Miss  Dorothy  !  How  pale  and 
agitated  !  More  than  anyone  she  seems  to  suffer 
during  this  cruel  discussion.  She  wishes  to  leave, 
to  take  Janet  out  under  the  pretext  of  making  some 
purchases  in  the  town  ;  but  the  squire  forbids  it ; 
it  is  no  longer  a  father,  it  is  an  examining  magistrate, 
bitter,  severe,  suspicious,  hardly  impartial,  who 
questions  her.  .  .  .  Yes  or  no  ;  has  she  known  this 
Mr.  Bannerbridge  ?  .  .  . 

She  faltered  :   "I  knew  him.  .  .  .  Harry  was  lost  in 
the  streets  of  London  when  he  was  a  little  fellow,  and  the 
Mr.  Bannerbridge  I  knew  found  him  and  took  him  to 
his  house,  and  was  very  kind  to  him." 
"  What  was  his  Christian  name  ?  " 
I  gave  them  :   "  Charles  Adolphus." 
"  The  identical  person  !  "  exclaimed  my  father. 
"  Oh  !    you  admit  it,"  said  the  squire.     "  Ever  seen 
him  since  the  time  Harry  was  lost,  Dorothy  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  have  heard  he  is  dead." 
"  Did  you  see  him  shortly  before  his  death  ?  " 
"  I  happened  to  see  him  a  short  time  before." 
"  He  was  your  man  of  business,  was  he  ?  " 
"  For  such  little  business  as  I  had  to  do." 
'  You  were  sure  you  could  trust  him,  eh  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

My  Aunt  Dorothy  breathed  deeply. 
"  By  God,  ma'am,  you're  a  truthful  woman  !  " 
The  old  man  gave  her  a  glare  of  admiration. 

But  Richmond  Roy  is  not  here  to  waste  time  in 
so  frivolous  an  inquiry. 


HIS    GENIUS  151 

He  rises  to  his  feet  impatiently  and  declares  : 

"  I  can  conduct  my  son  to  happiness  and  greatness, 
my  dear  sir  ;  but  to  some  extent  I  require  your  grand- 
fatherly  assistance  ;  and  I  urge  you  now  to  present  your 
respects  to  the  Prince  and  Princess,  and  judge  yourself 
of  his  Highness's  disposition  for  the  match.  I  assure  you 
in  advance  that  he  welcomes  the  proposal." 

The  squire  hangs  back.  So  irksome  and  grave  a 
proceeding  with  a  prince,  a  foreigner  and  an  un- 
known— and  that  which  makes  it  still  more  painful, 
the  idea  of  failure — is  repugnant  to  him.  But  in 
vain  he  foams  and  stamps  with  rage  ;  everyone  is 
against  him  ;  even  the  two  ladies  present,  who  are 
in  league  with  Richmond  Roy,  demand  an  official 
marriage. 

At  this  juncture  a  domestic  enters,  carrying  Prince 
Hermann's  card. 

' '  Another  prince  ! ' '  cried  the  squire.  ' '  These  Germans 
seem  to  grow  princes  like  potatoes — dozens  to  a  root  ! 
Who's  the  card  for  ?  Ask  him  to  walk  up.  Show  him 
into  a  quiet  room.    Does  he  speak  English  ?  ' 

Upon  learning  that  this  prince  speaks  English  as 
well  as  Janet,  the  squire  is  mollified,  and  consents 
to  negotiate  with  him  upon  the  question  of  his 
grandson's  marriage. 

As  the  squire  leaves  the  room  leaning  upon  Janet's 
arm,  Miss  Dorothy  makes  for  the  window  where 
Harry  is  standing,  and  whispers  in  his  ear  : 


152  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

'  The  money  has  not  been  spent  ?  Has  it  ?  Has  any 
part  of  it  been  spent  ?  Are  you  sure  you  have  more  than 
three  parts  of  it  ?  " 

And  adds  : 

'  Tell  me,  Harry,  that  the  money  is  all  safe  ;  nearly 
all ;  it  is  important  to  know  ;  you  promised  economy." 

Really,  though  Miss  Dorothy  was  considered  at 
Riversley  as  an  old  maid,  extremely  careful,  and 
even  inclined  to  parsimony,  Harry  is  astonished 
that  under  these  conditions  she  should  be  so  con- 
cerned about  money  which  really  did  not  belong 
to  her.  His  aunt's  insistence  strikes  him  as  some- 
what humorous,  and  he  is  on  the  verge  of  laughter. 
But,  realising  that  his  destiny  is  being  decided  in 
another  room,  he  remains  grave. 

The  squire,  when  he  enters  the  drawing-room 
with  Janet,  resumes  the  affair  of  Miss  Dorothy.  He 
also  summons  his  grandson.  What  remains  of  the 
money  handed  over  to  Richmond  Roy  ?  Has  he 
already  spent  it  ? 

"  Not  all,  sir,"  I  was  able  to  say. 

"Half?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  Three  parts  ?  " 

"  It  may  be." 

"  And  liabilities  besides  ?  " 

"  There  are  some." 

"  You're  not  a  liar.    That'll  do  for  you." 


HIS    GENIUS  153 

Miss  Dorothy,  livid  in  colour,  with  her  lips  pressed 
together,  and  bending  like  a  shrub  before  a  squall, 
shuts  her  eyes  tightly.  Alas !  she  understands  only 
too  well  the  loud  and  vengeful  voice  which  publicly 
accuses  her  of  a  clumsy  strategy.  Mr.  Beltham 
hates  spying  :  to  have  recourse  to  secret  police,  to 
eavesdrop  upon  one's  own  family,  are  detestable 
practices.  But  when  the  truth  is  forced  upon  him, 
when  the  evidence  leaps  up  before  his  eyes,  must  a 
father  turn  aside  and  pretend  not  to  see  anything  ? 
The  squire,  suspecting  nothing,  had  come  to  London 
on  business.  There,  by  chance,  while  at  his  banker's, 
they  had  opened  the  account-book  in  his  presence  at 
the  page  "  Beltham,"  and  he  saw  and  understood  all. 
Henceforth  it  is  an  assumed  fact :  Miss  Dorothy  had 
sold  twenty-five  thousand  pounds' worth  of  stock.  .  .  . 

Miss  Beltham  trembles. 

And  Richmond  Roy,  how  does  he  receive  this 
revelation  ?  .  .  .  A  strange  thing,  he  does  not  seem 
to  have  heard  !  .  .  .  Convinced  that  the  twenty- 
five  thousand  pounds  came  to  him  from  the  Govern- 
ment, and  long  ago  accustomed  to  the  squire's 
violent  outbursts,  he  has  scarcely  listened  to  these 
latest  scenes  :  he  keeps  his  bold  air,  remaining 
impassive  and  slightly  sarcastic,  so  that  the  squire, 
exasperated  by  this  arrogant  attitude,  turns  against 
him  all  the  fury  of  his  anger  : 

"  Richmond,  there,  my  daughter,  Dorothy  Beltham, 
there's  the  last  of  your  fools  and  dupes.    She's  a  truthful 


154  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

woman,  I'll  own,  and  she'll  contradict  me  if  what  I 
say  is  not  the  fact.  That  twenty-five  thousand  from 
'  Government '  came  out  of  her  estate." 

"  Out  of " 

"  Out  of — be  damned,  sir  !  She's  the  person  who 
paid  it." 

"  If  the  '  damns  '  have  set  up,  you  may  as  well  let  the 
ladies  go,"  said  I. 

He  snapped  at  me  like  a  rabid  dog  in  career. 

"  She's  the  person — one  of  your  petticoat  '  Govern- 
ment ' — who  paid — do  you  hear  me,  Richmond  ? — the 
money  to  help  you  to  keep  your  word  :  to  help  you  to 
give  your  balls  and  dinners  too.  She — I  won't  say  she 
told  you,  and  you  knew  it — she  paid  it.  She  sent  it 
through  her  Mr.  Bannerbridge.  Do  you  understand  now  ? 
You  had  it  from  her.     My  God  !  look  at  the  fellow  !  " 

A  dreadful  gape  of  stupefaction  had  usurped  the 
smiles  on  my  father's  countenance  ;  his  eyes  rolled  over, 
he  tried  to  articulate,  and  was  indeed  a  spectacle  for  an 
enemy.  His  convulsed  frame  rocked  the  syllables,  as 
with  a  groan,  unpleasant  to  hear,  he  called  on  my  Aunt 
Dorothy  by  successive  stammering  apostrophes  to 
explain,  spreading  his  hands  wide.  He  called  out  her 
Christian  name.    Her  face  was  bloodless. 

My  father  touched  the  points  of  his  fingers  on  his 
forehead,  straining  to  think,  too  theatrically,  but  in  hard 
earnest,  I  believe.    He  seemed  to  be  rising  on  tiptoe. 

"  Oh,  madam  !  Dear  lady  !  my  friend  !  Dorothy, 
my  sister  !  Better  a  thousand  times  that  I  had  married, 
though  I  shrank  from  a  heartless  union  !  This  money 
— it  is  not " 

Even  as  the  spectators  are  angered  when  an  exe- 
cutioner tortures  his  victim  beyond  measure,  Harry, 
Miss  Dorothy  and  Janet  try  to  prevent  the  squire 


HIS   GENIUS  155 

from  further  torturing  Richmond  Roy.  But  how 
is  one  to  stay  the  cyclone  ?  Mr.  Beltham  is  beside 
himself  with  fury  :  he  rails  against  the  presumptuous 
rogue  who  boasted  of  intimidating  the  British 
Government,  and  then  lived  for  years  at  the  expense 
of  a  provincial  spinster.  .  .  .  Yes,  for  three  long 
years,  for  the  annuity  itself,  the  famous  annuity 
of  the  "  Government,"  was  but  Dorothy  Beltham's 
pension  handed  over  to  Richmond  Roy  by  the 
agency  of  Mr.  Bannerbridge. 

"  You  married  the  boy's  mother  to  craze  and  kill  her, 
and  guttle  her  property.  You  waited  for  the  boy  to 
come  of  age  to  swallow  what  was  settled  on  him.  You 
wait  for  me  to  lie  in  my  coffin  to  pounce  on  the  strong- 
box you  think  me  the  fool  to  toss  to  a  young  donkey 
ready  to  ruin  all  his  belongings  for  you  !  For  nine-and- 
twenty  years  you've  sucked  the  veins  of  my  family,  and 
struck  through  my  house  like  a  rotting-disease.  Nine- 
and-twenty  years  ago  you  gave  a  singing-lesson  in  my 
house  :  the  pest  has  been  in  it  ever  since  !  You  breed 
vermin  in  the  brain,  to  think  of  you  !  Your  wife,  your 
son,  your  dupes,  every  soul  that  touches  you,  mildews 
from  a  blight  !  You  were  born  of  ropery,  and  you  go  at 
it  straight,  like  a  webfoot  to  water.  What's  your  boast  ? 
— your  mother's  disgrace  !  You  shame  your  mother. 
Your  whole  life's  a  ballad  o'  bastardy.  You  cry  up  the 
woman's  infamy  to  hook  at  a  father.  You  swell  and  strut 
on  her  pickings.  You're  a  cock  forced  from  the  smoke 
of  the  dunghill  !  You  shame  your  mother,  damned 
adventurer  !  You  train  your  boy  for  a  swindler  after 
your  own  pattern  ;  your  twirl  him  in  your  curst  harle- 
quinade to  a  damnation  as  sure  as  your  own.  The  day 
you  crossed  my  threshold  the  devils  danced  on  their 


156  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

flooring.  I've  never  seen  the  sun  shine  fair  on  me  after 
it.  With  your  guitar  under  the  windows,  of  moon- 
light nights  :  your  Spanish  fopperies  and  trickeries  ! 
your  French  phrases  and  toeings  !  I  was  touched  by  a 
leper.  You  set  your  traps  for  both  my  girls  :  you  caught 
the  brown  one  first,  did  you,  and  flung  her  second  for 
t'other,  and  drove  a  tandem  of  'em  to  live  the  spangled 
hog  you  are  ;  and  down  went  the  mother  of  the  boy  to 
the  place  she  liked  better,  and  my  other  girl  here — the 
one  you  cheated  for  her  salvation — you  tried  to  cajole 
her  from  home  and  me,  to  send  her  the  same  way  down. 
She  stuck  to  decency.  Good  Lord  !  you  threatened  to 
hang  yourself,  guitar  and  all.  But  her  purse  served  your 
turn.  For  why  ?  You're  a  leech.  I  speak  before  ladies 
or  I'd  rip  your  town-life  to  shreds.  Your  cause  !  your 
romantic  history  !  your  fine  figure  !  every  inch  of  you's 
notched  with  villainy !  You  fasten  on  every  moneyed 
woman  that  comes  in  your  way.  You've  outdone  Herod 
in  murdering  the  innocents,  for  he  didn't  feed  on  'em, 
and  they've  made  you  fat.  One  thing  I'll  say  of  you  : 
you  look  the  beastly  thing  you  set  yourself  up  for.  The 
kindest  blow  to  you's  to  call  you  impostor." 

My  Aunt  Dorothy  supplicated  his  attention.  "  One 
error  I  must  correct."  Her  voice  issued  from  a  con- 
tracted throat,  and  was  painfully  thin  and  straining,  as 
though  the  will  to  speak  did  violence  to  her  weaker 
nature.  "  My  sister  loved  Mr.  Richmond.  It  was  to 
save  her  life,  because  I  believed  she  loved  him  much  and 
would  have  died,  that  Mr.  Richmond — in  pity — offered 
her  his  hand,  at  my  wish  "  :  she  bent  her  head  :  "at  my 
cost.  It  was  done  for  me.  I  wished  it  ;  he  obeyed  me. 
No  blame — "  her  dear  mouth  faltered.  "I  am  to  be 
accused,  if  anybody." 

Tender  and  faithful  Dorothy  !  You  have  ex- 
pressed in  this  avowal  all  the  modesty,  gentleness, 


HIS    GENIUS  157 

ingenuousness,  and  timidity  of  your  soul.  While 
you  painfully  articulate  this  public  confession,  all 
hearts  are  thrilled,  and  the  squire  himself  would 
have  embraced  you  with  admiration,  if  his  excessive 
anger  had  not  stupefied  him,  and  if  he  had  not  still 
kept  to  his  purpose  of  crushing  his  opponent,  as  if  to 
punish  him  for  inspiring  such  a  noble  devotion. 

The  only  hope  that  remains  to  Richmond  Roy, 
amidst  the  bankruptcy  of  his  wild  dreams,  is  the 
marriage  of  his  son  to  Princess  Ottilia.  Thus  he 
begs  the  squire  not  to  bear  the  same  animosity 
towards  his  son  as  towards  him.  Provided  that  the 
marriage  should  take  place,  he  would  consent  to 
disappear,  and  no  one  should  ever  hear  of  him  again. 

Then  Mr.  Beltham  gives  him  the  final  blow  : 

"  Richmond,  your  last  little  bit  of  villainy's  broken  in 
the  egg.  I  separate  the  boy  from  you  :  he's  not  your 
accomplice  there,  I'm  glad  to  know.  You  witched  the 
lady  over  to  pounce  on  her  like  a  fowler,  you  threatened 
her  father  with  a  scandal,  if  he  thought  proper  to  force 
the  trap  ;  swore  you'd  toss  her  to  be  plucked  by  the 
gossips,  eh  ?  She's  free  of  you  !  She — what  is  it,  Janet  ? 
Never  mind,  I've  got  the  story — she  didn't  want  to 
marry  ;  but  this  prince,  who  called  on  me  just  now, 
happened  to  be  her  father's  nominee,  and  he  heard  of 
your  scoundrelism,  and  he  behaved  like  a  man  and  a 
gentleman,  and  offered  himself,  none  too  early  nor  too 
late,  as  it  turns  out  ;  and  the  princess,  like  a  good  girl, 
has  made  amends  to  her  father  by  accepting  him.  They 
sent  him  here  to  stop  any  misunderstanding.  He  speaks 
good  English,  so  that's  certain.  Your  lies  will  be 
contradicted,  every  one  of  'em,  seriatim,  in  to-morrow's 


158  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

newspapers,  setting  the  real  man  in  place  of  the  wrong 
one  ;  and  you'll  draw  no  profit  from  them  in  your 
fashionable  world,  where  you've  been  grinning  lately, 
like  a  blackamoor's  head  on  a  conjurer's  plate — the 
devil  alone  able  to  account  for  the  body  and  joinings. 
Now  you  can  be  off." 

Harry  reddened  at  the  idea  of  abandoning  his 
father  at  such  a  crisis.  And  now  he  must  choose 
definitely  between  him  and  his  grandfather. 

I  went  up  to  my  father.  His  plight  was  more  desperate 
than  mine,  for  I  had  resembled  the  condemned  before  the 
firing-party,  to  whom  the  expected  bullet  brings  a 
merely  physical  shock.  He,  poor  man,  heard  his 
sentence,  which  is  the  heart's  pang  of  death  ;  and  how 
fondly  and  rootedly  he  had  clung  to  the  idea  of  my 
marriage  with  the  princess  was  shown  in  his  extinction 
after  this  blow. 

My  grandfather  chose  the  moment  as  a  fitting  one  to 
ask  me  for  the  last  time  to  take  my  side. 

I  replied,  without  offence  in  the  tones  of  my  voice, 
that  I  thought  my  father  need  not  lose  me  into  the 
bargain,  after  what  he  had  suffered  that  day. 

He  just  as  quietly  rejoined  with  a  recommendation  to 
me  to  divorce  myself  for  good  and  all  from  a  scoundrel. 

I  took  my  father's  arm  :  he  was  not  in  a  state  to  move 
away  unsupported. 

My  Aunt  Dorothy  stood  weeping  ;  Janet  was  at  the 
window,  no  friend  to  either  of  us. 

I  said  to  her,  "  You  have  your  wish." 

She  shook  her  head,  but  did  not  look  back. 

My  grandfather  watched  me,  step  by  step,  until  I  had 
reached  the  door. 

"  You're  going,  are  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  Then  I  whistle 
you  off  my  fingers  !  " 


HIS    GENIUS  159 

My  grandfather  lived  eight  months  after  a  scene  that 
had  afforded  him  high  gratification  at  the  heaviest  cost  a 
plain  man  can  pay  for  his  pleasures  :  it  killed  him. 

If  the  romance  does  not  finish  here,  it  is  because 
the  fundamental  idea  in  the  book  is  not  the  long 
rivalry  between  Mr.  Beltham  and  Richmond  Roy, 
but  the  moral  education  of  a  young  man,  the  history 
of  a  psychological  ordeal,  such  as  we  find  in  Evan 
Harrington,  Sandra  Belloni,  The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel  and  almost  all  Meredith's  romances.  Conse- 
quently if  Harry  Richmond  had  not  completed  his 
apprenticeship,  the  author's  imagination  would  not 
have  been  satisfied  ;  and  that  is  why  the  scene  we 
have  just  been  picturing  is  prolonged  in  an  epilogue. 

Determined  to  develop  the  incidents  to  their 
fullest  extent,  to  trace  the  feelings  to  their  logical 
extremes,  George  Meredith  now  tells  of  the  bitter 
cross  which  his  hero  must  bear  before  he  can  deserve 
a  happy  and  tranquil  domestic  life  with  so  perfect 
a  being  as  Janet  Ilchester.  ...  It  is  true,  in  fact, 
that  Harry  Richmond  did  not  grieve  exclusively  for 
the  loss  of  Princess  Ottilia.  He  was  soon  cured 
of  his  fancies.  But  he  had  much  to  do  to  discipline 
his  egotistical  desires,  and  to  banish  those  ambitious 
ideas  of  which  he  had  become  possessed  under 
Richmond  Roy's  influence. 

When  at  length  he  humbly  begged  his  cousin's 
hand,  and  when,  after  painful  trials,  Janet  and  Harry 
felt  themselves  disciplined  and  purified,  they  were 


160  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

astonished  at  not  having  realised  sooner  how  dear 
they  were  to  one  another. 

They  both  longed  to  return  to  Riversley.  But  on 
arriving  at  the  Grange,  the  young  married  couple 
found  themselves  present  at  a  terrible  catastrophe, 
a  symbol  of  the  calamities  which  a  vain  and  im- 
penitent "  sentimentalism  "  provides. 

Richmond  Roy  was  now  but  the  shade  of  himself. 
Sometimes  he  lived  with  Harry,  sometimes  with  the 
Bulsteds.  Often  upon  remembering  his  former 
triumph,  the  poor  fellow  would  shake  his  rattle  ;  but 
it  was  destroyed  and  would  give  out  no  sound.  He 
became  more  depressed  from  day  to  day.  But  when 
he  heard  of  Harry's  marriage  with  Janet  Ilchester, 
his  former  vivacity  returned,  and  he  wished  to 
precede  the  young  couple,  in  order  to  prepare  for 
them  a  triumphal  reception  at  Riversley.  It  was 
thus  while  organising  a  new  fete — which  should  be 
the  most  magnificent  in  his  life — that  he  organised 
a  new  disaster.  This  ill-fated  pyrotechnist  set  fire 
to  Riversley  Grange,  and  perished  in  the  flames,  a 
victim  to  his  own  extravagance.  But  let  us  use 
Harry  Richmond's  words.  They  will  give  us  a 
graphic  account  of  the  fire  at  Riversley  Grange  : 

Villagers,  tenants,  farm-labourers,  groups  of  a  deputa- 
tion that  had  gone  to  the  railway-station  to  give  us 
welcome,  and  returned,  owing  to  a  delay  in  our  arrival, 
stood  gazing  from  all  quarters.  The  Grange  was  burning 
in  two  great  wings,  that  soared  in  flame-tips  and  columns 
of  crimson  smoke,  leaving  the  central  halls  and  chambers 


HIS    GENIUS  1G1 

untouched  as  yet,  but  alive  inside  with  mysterious  ranges 
of  lights,  now  curtained,  now  made  bare — a  feeble 
contrast  to  the  savage  blaze  to  right  and  left,  save  for 
the  wonder  aroused  as  to  its  significance.  These  were 
soon  cloaked.  D^ad  sable  reigned  in  them,  and  at  once 
a  jet  of  flame  gave  the  whole  vast  building  to  destruction. 
My  wife  thrust  her  hand  in  mine.  Fire  at  the  heart,  fire 
at  the  wings — our  old  home  stood  in  that  majesty  of 
horror  which  freezes  the  limbs  of  men,  bidding  them 
look  and  no  more. 

"  What  has  Riversley  done  to  deserve  this  ?  "  I  heard 
Janet  murmur  to  herself.  "  His  room  !  "  she  said,  when 
at  the  south-east  wing,  where  my  old  grandfather  had 
slept,  there  burst  a  glut  of  flame.  We  drove  down  to  the 
park  and  along  the  carriage-road  to  the  first  red  line  of 
gazers.  They  told  us  that  no  living  creatures  were  in  the 
house.  My  Aunt  Dorothy  was  at  Bulsted.  I  perceived 
my  father's  man  Tollingby  among  the  servants,  and 
called  him  to  me  ;  others  came,  and  out  of  a  clatter  of 
tongues,  and  all  eyes  fearfully  askant  at  the  wall  of  fire, 
we  gathered  that  a  great  reception  had  been  prepared 
for  us  by  my  father  :  lamps,  lights  in  all  the  rooms, 
torches  in  the  hall,  illuminations  along  the  windows, 
stores  of  fireworks,  such  a  display  as  only  he  could  have 
dreamed  of.  The  fire  had  broken  out  at  dusk,  from  an 
explosion  of  fireworks  at  one  wing  and  some  inexplicable 
mismanagement  at  the  other.  But  the  house  must  have 
been  like  a  mine,  what  with  the  powder,  the  torches,  the 
devices  in  paper  and  muslin,  and  the  extraordinary 
decorations  fitted  up  to  celebrate  our  return  in  harmony 
with  my  father's  fancy. 

Gentlemen  on  horseback  dashed  up  to  us.  Captain 
Bulsted  seized  my  hand.  He  was  hot  from  a  ride  to  fetch 
engines,  and  sang  sharp  in  my  ear,  "  Have  you  got 
him  ?  "   It  was  my  father  he  meant.  The  cry  rose  for  my 

M 


162  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

father,  and  the  groups  were  agitated  and  split,  and  the 
name  of  the  missing  man,  without  an  answer  to  it, 
shouted.  Captain  Bulsted  had  left  him  bravely  attempt- 
ing to  quench  the  flames  after  the  explosion  of  fireworks. 
He  rode  about,  interrogating  the  frightened  servants  and 
grooms  holding  horses  and  dogs.  They  could  tell  us  that 
the  cattle  were  safe,  not  a  word  of  my  father  ;  and  amid 
shrieks  of  women  at  fresh  falls  of  timber  and  ceiling 
into  the  pit  of  fire,  and  warnings  from  the  men,  we  ran 
the  heated  circle  of  the  building  to  find  a  loophole  and 
offer  aid  if  a  living  soul  should  be  left  ;  the  night  around 
us  bright  as  day,  busier  than  day,  and  a  human  now 
added  to  elemental  horror.  Janet  would  not  quit  her 
place.  She  sent  her  carriage-horses  to  Bulsted,  and  sat 
in  the  carriage  to  see  the  last  of  burning  Riversley.  Each 
time  that  I  came  to  her  she  folded  her  arms  on  my  neck 
and  kissed  me  silently. 

We  gathered  from  the  subsequent  testimony  of  men 
and  women  of  the  household  who  had  collected  their 
wits,  that  my  father  must  have  remained  in  the  doomed 
old  house  to  look  to  the  safety  of  my  Aunt  Dorothy.  He 
was  never  seen  again. 

•  ••••• 

Though  Richmond  Roy  never  more  reappears  at 
Riversley  Grange,  he  will  haunt  our  memories  for 
years.  Whoever  has  seen  him  in  Meredith's  romance 
will  always  think  of  him  as  the  model  of  ambitious 
and  unscrupulous  adventurers, — of  an  order  so 
outstanding,  with  colours  so  striking,  that  the 
remembrance  of  him  obliterates  reality,  and  casts 
the  living  into  the  shade,  as  being  pale  imitators 
without  his  genius.  Richmond  Roy,  this  fictitious 
impostor,    stands    out    more    clearly    than    other 


HIS   GENIUS  163 

impostors  famous  in  history :  Pougatcheff  and 
Naundorff  lacked  his  audacity  and  effrontery ;  Gas- 
pard  Hauser  did  not  recount  his  misfortunes  with 
such  emotion  ;  Perkin  Warbeck,  who  has  inspired 
Schiller  and  John  Ford,  had  not  that  irresistible 
charm,  when  he  aimed  at  a  throne,  and  endeavoured 
to  claim  the  hand  of  a  princess.  These  real  impostors 
make  a  sad  show  beside  Richmond  Roy.  Without 
his  sincerity,  they  lack  his  ease  of  manner.  Some 
seem  puppets,  others  monsters.  The  advantage  that 
Richmond  Roy  maintains  over  those  of  his  kind  is 
the  subtle  composition  of  his  extraordinary  spirit, 
a  mixture  of  frankness  and  treachery,  disinterested- 
ness and  egoism,  nobleness  and  vulgarity,  candour 
and  craft ;  this  happy  and  unique  mixture  prevents 
him  from  being  either  altogether  odious  or  altogether 
grotesque. 


CHAPTER    IV 
GEORGE   MEREDITH'S  ART 

THE  delicacy  and  profusion  of  works  of  art  in 
certain  overcrowded  museums  neutralise  the 
general  effect.  Thus  even  an  incisive  mind  is  dulled 
upon  a  first  visit  to  the  galleries  of  South  Kensington. 
One  feels  confused,  weakened.  ...  To  return  imme- 
diately would  be  but  to  aggravate  the  vertigo.  .  .  . 
The  smallest  glass-cases  are  changed  into  so  many 
mysterious  archipelagos,  where  the  eye  discerns  with 
dismay,  a  display  of  minute  wonders.  Similarly,  at 
a  cursory  glance,  neither  The  Egoist  nor  Diana  of 
the  Crossways  acquaints  us  with  Meredith's  style  : 
their  dazzling  complexities  disconcert  an  inex- 
perienced reader.  .  .  . 

But  is  it  not  by  way  of  simple  things  that  one 
comes  to  the  composite  ?  .  .  .  Let  us  begin  always 
with  nature.  The  best  remedy  for  our  literary 
perplexities  is  to  study  at  first  hand  passages  from 
Meredith.  The  novelist's  caprices  will  dishearten 
us  less  if  we  learn  to  know  him  as  a  lyric  poet. 

Follow  him  upon  the  greensward  upon  a  calm  and 

164 


HIS    ART  165 

hazy  morning.  At  the  first  rays  of  a  dawn  fresh  and 
clear,  he  saunters  abroad  thoughtless  of  his  appear- 
ance, and  forgetful  altogether  of  his  writings.  Upon 
the  lightest  rustle,  before  even  one  knows  what  agile 
and  impetuous  thing  has  escaped  from  the  corn, 
George  Meredith  with  a  cry  of  delight  recog- 
nises the  bird  which  soars  on  high.  .  .  .  Have  you 
heard  the  hautbois  reply  to  the  flute  in  a  beautiful 
pastoral  symphony  ?  ...  It  is  thus  that  Meredith 
conveys  to  us  in  human  language,  with  the  same 
tone,  the  same  rhythm,  the  chant  of  the  lark  : 

He  rises  and  begins  to  round, 

He  drops  the  silver  chain  of  sound, 

Of  many  links  without  a  break, 

In  chirrup,  whistle,  slur  and  shake, 

All  intervolved  and  spreading  wide, 

Like  water-dimples  down  a  tide 

Where  ripple  ripple  overcurls 

And  eddy  into  eddy  whirls  ; 

A  press  of  hurried  notes  that  run 

So  fleet  they  scarce  are  more  than  one, 

Yet  changeingly  the  trills  repeat 

And  linger  ringing  while  they  fleet, 

Sweet  to  the  quick  o'  the  ear,  and  dear 

To  her  beyond  the  handmaid  ear, 

Who  sits  beside  our  inner  springs.1 

Let  us  rest  awhile  and  take  breath  !  .  .  .  How 
are  we  to  translate  this  unparalleled  musical 
phrasing,  extended  upon  the  same  theme  for 
sixty-four  lines,  so  limpid  and  so  full  ?  How  are  we 
to  translate  this  perpetual,  unfaltering  song  ?  Have 
we  under  our  eyes  a  poetic  or  musical  imitation  ? 

1   The  Lark  Ascending,  in  Poems  of  the  Joy  of  Earth 


166  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

.  .  .  Neither.  It  is  the  lark  itself  which  carols.  .  .  . 
With  this  sole  difference,  that  its  warblings  are 
comprehensible. 

Meredith  makes  no  chain  of  external  perceptions. 
Enthusiasm,  at  its  height,  creates  in  him  a  kind  of 
hallucination.  In  idea  he  casts  himself  into  the 
heart  of  a  phenomenon,  then,  instead  of  describing  it, 
he  endeavours  to  reproduce  it.  .  .  . 

You  have  to  do  with  a  prophet  ;  that  is  the  truth 
of  the  matter.  .  .  .  And,  having  got  over  your  first 
astonishment,  your  spirit  accommodates  itself  to 
this  new  kind  of  poetry,  although  the  adaptation 
is  not  possible  without  some  effort. 

But  you  are  not  yet  at  the  end  of  your  difficulties. 
Above  all,  don't  forget  this  :  Pegasus  has  no  fear  of 
sudden  caprice.  Have  an  eye  upon  his  conduct  !  A 
leap,  a  sudden  shy,  and  you  are  in  the  dust.  .  .  . 
What  has  happened  ?  .  .  .  Merely  that  the  poet, 
with  the  most  naive  grace  in  the  world,  has  changed 
his  attitude  :  he  has  thrown  himself  beyond  the 
songster  in  order  to  consider  it  as  a  symbol ;  he 
plays  the  part  of  philosopher.  This,  in  a  few  words, 
is  the  argument  : 

"  Never  has  human  song  expressed  our  inmost 
being  with  as  much  fire,  with  as  much  sweetness 
as  this  truthful  lark.  .  .  .  And  why  ?  Why  are  not 
our  outpourings  altogether  musical  and  truth- 
bearing  ?  .  .  .  Alas  !  the  torrent  of  our  passions 
becomes  a  tumultuous  flood,  and  it  is  first  necessary 


HIS    ART  167 

to  calm  ourselves  before  we  utter  words  of  wisdom. 
We  have  no  interpreter  so  pure,  so  angelically 
impersonal,  whom  the  millions  may  applaud  as 
eloquent  spokesman,  while  in  their  name  he  greets 
the  sun. 

"  If  the  lark  so  easily  accomplishes  its  flight  and 
song,  it  is  because,  living  in  accordance  with  the 
resources  of  the  earth,  the  happy  bird  asserts  the 
perfection  of  its  well-ordained  existence.  .  .  .  We 
others,  always  far  removed  from  the  normal 
diapason  of  life,  we  whose  destinies  abound  in 
discords,  where  should  we  find  such  singers  !  .  .  . 
A  mere  handful  of  noble  souls,  some  still  alive,  others 
departed,  teach  us  the  elements  of  a  future  harmony . 
They  had  the  clarion  voice,  and  the  divine  beat  of 
wing.  Their  lives  alone — whether  they  sang  or  not — 
have  the  melody  of  a  hymn  of  joy.  We  owe  them 
sweet  song.  They  go  forth  as  the  lark  ;  as  the  lark, 
they  fill  the  plains  of  earth  and  sky  with  showers 
drawn  from  human  stores  ;  as  the  lark,  they  soar  in 
upper  air,  then,  when  their  circlings  are  lost  in  the 
light  of  the  sun,  there  remains,  in  the  blue  air,  only 
the  imagination  of  them  which  still  is  singing.  ..." 


The  ode  entitled  The  Lark  Ascending,  published 
by  Meredith  at  a  mature  age,  1881,  discloses  his 
remarkable  ability  in  manipulating  and  combining 
elements  of  every  kind.  He  yokes,  despite  their 
manifest  incompatibility,  dithyramb  and  disserta- 
tion, music  and  metaphysics.  Have  no  fear  if  he 
sometimes  neglects  the  principal  theme  !    He  always 


168  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

revives  it,  and  at  such  a  place  that  he  may  glorify 
the  precept  which  was  withheld,  with  some  beautiful 
idea.  Thus  did  Plato  with  his  allegories  and  myths. 
Indeed  in  George  Meredith's  work  poetry  and  prose 
mingle  in  harmony.  Return  to  our  lark.  ...  At 
the  outset,  circling  above  the  corn,  it  gives  sensuous 
delight  to  our  eyes  and  ears  ;  afterwards,  as  it 
mounts  aloft,  it  symbolises  human  progress,  the 
mysterious  nuptial  of  sky  and  earth,  and  it  is  then 
that  it  recompenses,  with  a  chaste  and  spiritual 
delight,  the  soul  which  contemplates  it. 

Are  you  disturbed  by  these  changes  ?  Do  you  not 
agree  that  the  visible  should  lead  to  the  invisible, 
the  material  to  the  spiritual  ?  ...  Do  you  dislike 
unprecedented  modulations,  the  sudden  opening  of 
doors  upon  vistas  of  transient  sublimity  ?  Ah,  well  ! 
then  have  nothing  to  do  with  Meredith.  .  .  .  His 
most  affecting  cadences,  his  most  sumptuous  decora- 
tions, the  myriad  charms  of  his  orchestra  and  canvas 
serve  but  to  enliven  the  gloomy  ways  of  his  reason- 
ing. .  .  .  Ideological  The  Appeasement  of  Dcmeter  ! 
Ideological  again  his  charming  vernal  allegory 
The  Day  of  the  Daughter  of  Hades  !  Ideological  too 
his  all-embracing  parable  of  the  good  physician 
Melampus  /  .  .  . 

If  Meredith  sings,  if  he  paints,  it  is  not  merely 
from  love  of  music,  or  love  of  colour.  On  the 
contrary,  colour  itself  becomes  a  theme  for  abstract 
speculation  in  the  Hymn  to  Colour.  .  .  .  And  when 


HIS    ART  169 

perchance  he  yields  to  the  vogue,  to  the  frivolous 
taste  of  the  day,  which  claims  "  art  for  art's  sake," 
he  produces  only  a  work  of  the  third  order,  a  work 
banal  and  degenerate.  .  .  .  We  should  not  ask 
from  him  ballads  or  German  Lieder  after  the  manner 
of  Schubert  or  Schumann  :  these  trifles  do  not 
suit  his  humour.  And  the  poems  of  185 1  prove  this. 
In  fact,  in  order  that  Meredith  should  be  truly 
Meredithian,  his  reason  must  be  kept  within  bounds. 
His  poetry  can  be  only  the  poetry  of  pure  idea.  Its 
very  nature  demands  constraint,  a  severe  and 
judicious  guardianship.  "  To  serve  !  to  serve  !  " 
such  is  his  cry.  .  .  .  Meredith  has  never  let  himself 
be  dazzled  as  was  his  comrade  Swinburne  by  the 
magnificent  music  of  flowing  periods.  He  does  not 
envy  the  pre-Raphaelites  their  hypocritical  and  pre- 
tentious ingenuity,  their  worship  of  archaism.  A 
short  poem,  in  some  places  touching,  Marguerite 
upon  the  eve  of  her  Wedding,  is  all  that  he  owes  to  the 
influence  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  His  Muse 
does  not  seek,  like  the  virgins  of  Burne- Jones,  vain 
and  melancholy  resemblances  upon  the  surface  of 
still  waters.  It  has  no  "  mirror  of  youth,"  but  the 
deep  mystery  of  human  thought.  So  that  later, 
when  he  found  himself  in  full  possession  of  a  wisdom, 
in  which  intuition  was  verified  by  experience, 
Meredith  revived  that  demonstrative  form  of  poetry 
which  seemed  to  have  been  extinct  since  the  days  of 
Lucretius  or  Xenophon,  Parmenides  or  Empedocles. 


170  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

A  strange  revival  for  the  nineteenth  century  which 
terrified  many. 

But  some,  more  hostile,  simply  dismissed  his 
poetry  as  so  much  prose  ;  a  poetry  which  dares  to 
make  use  of  reflection.  They  scorned  Meredith — 
that  pedantic  usurper,  that  perverse  novelist  who 
violated  poetry. 

Assuredly,  logic  and  analysis  encroached  many 
times  upon  Meredith's  lyricism.  This  is  incon- 
testable, and  we  have  all  regretted  it  when 
reading  the  Ode  to  the  Comic  Spirit,  or  The  Sage 
Enamoured  and  the  Honest  Lady.  But  what  we 
affirm  is,  that  the  poet  has  the  right,  in  some  cases, 
to  adopt  the  attitude  and  intellectual  processes  of 
the  philosopher.  We  most  energetically  maintain 
this,  for  we  are  not  desirous  of  losing  either  the 
lyric  poetry  of  Goethe  in  which  there  is  so  much 
that  is  precious,  or  the  entire  second  part  of  Faust. 
This  absurd  quarrel  of  styles  does  not  now  concern 
us.  The  essential  thing  is  that  the  born  poet  reveals 
himself  in  his  qualities  of  passion,  and  of  enthusiasm, 
through  his  own  invincible  power  of  giving  delight. 

George  Meredith  himself  was  convinced  of  his 
poetic  ability  : 

"  Chiefly  by  that  in  my  poetry  which  emphasises 
the  unity  of  life,  the  soul  that  breathes  through  the 
universe,  do  I  wish  to  be  remembered  :  for  the 
spiritual  is  the  eternal.    Only  a  few  read  my  verse, 


HIS    ART  171 

and  yet  it  is  that  for  which  I  care  most.  It  is 
vexatious  to  see  how  judges  from  whom  one  looks 
for  discernment  miss  the  point.  There  was  a  review 
of  Trevelyan's  book  on  my  poetry  in  last  week's 
Times,  complaining  of  the  shadowy  figure  of  Ildico 
in  the  Nuptials  of  Attila.  I  was  not  telling  a  love- 
story  ;  my  subject  was  the  fall  of  an  empire.  I 
began  with  poetry  and  I  shall  finish  with  it."  1 

He  was  not  mistaken.  The  poet  is  recognised  in 
George  Meredith  by  his  fervent  effusions,  which 
overflow — even  in  his  stories — in  so  impetuous 
a  flood,  in  glittering  imagery,  in  vast  and  laby- 
rinthine interludes  which  flow  along  like  orchestral 
accompaniments  in  our  modern  operas,  like  the 
strophes  and  anti-strophes  of  an  ancient  choir.  It 
is  not  only  in  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  that  he 
interpolates  a  "  diversion  upon  a  penny  whistle," 
but  he  does  the  same  in  each  of  his  novels,  from 
The  Shaving  of  Shagpat  to  The  Amazing  Marriage. 
Thus  a  second  faction,  not  less  blind  than  the  first, 
but  more  hypocritical,  granting  Meredith  neither 
vigour  nor  imagination,  pities  this  great  poet 
entangled  in  the  throes  of  prose,  as  an  albatross  of 
powerful  flight  is  entrapped  in  a  ravine. 

Thus  the  poets  hand  Meredith  over  to  the  prose- 
writers  :  the  novelists,  in  their  turn,  hand  him 
back  to  the  poets,  and  the  latter  finally  deliver 
him  up  to  the  philosophers.     But  what  exasperates 

1  Edward  Clodd,  article  already  mentioned. 


172  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

them   all    are    his    sallies,    his    fusillades    and    his 
glittering  style. 

"  Wit  in  a  poet  ?  In  a  novelist  ?  Pshaw  !  what 
absurdity  !  It  is  pardoned  in  a  man  of  the  world, 
in  a  journalist,  in  a  public  lecturer,  even  in  a  comic 
author.  ..." 

Upon  this,  forgetting  that  in  matter  of  wit  the 
best  endowed  never  possessed  but  the  bare  amount 
necessary,  they  indignantly  denounce  the  preamble 
to  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  certain  passages  of  Evan 
Harrington,  which  are  evidently  designed  for  light 
comedy,  the  grotesque  trials  of  Algernon  Blancove 
in  Rhoda  Fleming,  certain  tirades,  in  turn  dazzling 
and  obscure,  in  the  Essay  upon  Comedy,  The  Egoist, 
One  of  our  Conquerors  and  The  Amazing  Marriage. 
.  .  .  These  superfine  folk  cavil  at  the  three  Miss 
Poles,1  at  the  talkative  Mrs.  Chump  2  (the  more  so 
because  her  Irish  patois  is  pure  affectation  !)  and 
against  that  shrew  Mrs.  Pagnell,  whose  plebeian 
animation  debases  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta. 
Oh,  how  one  desires  to  remove  these  prejudices  from 
their  minds !  .  .  .  But  we  must  here  beware : 
satire  has  always  borrowed  its  spicy  remarks  from 
farce.  And  will  you  cast  overboard,  with  no  further 
trial,  the  art  of  a  Hogarth,  of  a  Goya,  a  Daumier  or 
of  a  Gavarni  ? 

After  all,  however  much  Meredith's  poetry 
touches  upon  philosophy,  however  much  the  novelist 

1  Sandra  Belloni.  2  Ibid. 


HIS    ART  173 

in  him  arrogates  to  himself  the  attributes,  the 
immunities  and  the  licence  of  a  poet,  and  however 
much  the  finest  humour  gives  relish  both  to  his  prose 
and  verse — is  there  any  real  objection  ?  How  can 
we  reproach  him  for  having  broken  through  artistic 
traditions,  since  such  exist  not  in  this  country  of 
Great  Britain,  ever  noted  as  a  veritable  Eldorado 
for  every  kind  of  sect  ? 

Let  us  endeavour  to  see  quite  clearly.  Personalities 
exuberant  and  daring  cannot  be  kept  within  bounds. 
When  a  Beethoven  wilfully  embellishes  the  con- 
tracted form  of  the  quartette  ;  when  a  Wagner 
conceives  and  brings  about  a  more  complete  union 
between  the  drama  and  the  symphony  ;  when  a 
George  Meredith,  of  himself,  assumes  the  role  of 
man  of  wit,  of  novelist,  of  lyric  poet,  and  of  thinker, 
— each  of  these  pioneers  is  exposed  to  wild  re- 
criminations. We  should  therefore  pay  no  attention 
to  the  unjust  yet  inevitable  attacks  upon  George 
Meredith,  if  we  had  not  met  among  his  detractors 
two  men  of  great  talent  :  Mr.  George  Moore,  who  has 
always  treated  him  with  scorn,  and  Oscar  Wilde,  who 
directed  against  him,  in  1889,  the  following  epigram  : 

"  His  style  is  chaos  illumined  by  flashes  of 
lightning.  As  a  writer  he  has  mastered  everything 
except  language  :  as  a  novelist  he  can  do  everything, 
except  tell  a  story  :  as  an  artist  he  is  everything 
except  articulate.  .  .  ."  x 

1  "  The  Decay  of  Lying"  in  Intentions,  by  Oscar  Wilde. 


174  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

This  mischievous  remark  went  the  round  of  the 
newspapers.  But  they  were  careful  to  suppress 
what  Oscar  Wilde  wrote  two  years  later  in  1891  : 

'  One  incomparable  novelist  we  have  now  in 
England,  Mr.  George  Meredith.  There  are  better 
artists  in  France,  but  France  has  no  one  whose  view 
of  life  is  so  large,  so  varied,  so  imaginatively  true. 
There  are  tellers  of  stories  in  Russia  who  have  a 
more  vivid  sense  of  what  pain  in  fiction  may  be. 
But  to  him  belongs  philosophy  in  fiction.  His 
people  not  merely  live,  but  they  live  in  thought. 
One  can  see  them  from  myriad  points  of  view. 
They  are  suggestive.  There  is  soul  in  them  and 
around  them.  They  are  interpretative  and  symbolic. 
And  he  who  made  them,  those  wonderful  quickly- 
moving  figures,  made  them  for  his  own  pleasure,  and 
has  never  asked  the  public  what  they  wanted,  has 
never  cared  to  know  what  they  wanted,  has  never 
allowed  the  public  to  dictate  to  him  or  influence 
him  in  any  way,  but  has  gone  on  intensifying  his  own 
personality,  and  producing  his  own  individual  work. 
At  first  none  came  to  him.  That  did  not  matter. 
Then  the  few  came  to  him.  That  did  not  change 
him.  The  many  have  come  now.  He  is  still  the 
same.    He  is  an  incomparable  novelist.  .  .  ."  l 

Care  was  taken  not  to  divulge  this  magnificent 
eulogy.  Some  jackals,  sheltering  behind  Messrs. 
Oscar  Wilde  and  George  Moore,  howled  insolently 
at    the    "  eccentric    of    Box    Hill,"    his    "  ataxical 

1  The  Soul  of  Man  under  Socialism,  by  Oscar  Wilde. 


HIS    ART  175 

grimaces,"    his    "  incoherent    gibberish."  ...  To 
quote  only  the  mildest  of  their  expressions.  .  .  . 

Meredith  was  not  ignorant  of  their  diatribes. 
Then,  with  bitter  irony,  he  sent  word  to  an  American 
admirer  of  his  :  "  In  England,  I  am  encouraged 
by  only  a  small  number  of  enthusiasts." 

Of  course,  Meredith's  enterprise  was  hazardous  ! 
...  To  stamp  upon  a  modern  novel  the  delights  of 
a  cantata  ;  to  give  such  an  ode  as  The  Lark  A  scend- 
ing,  meaning  upon  meaning,  superposed  like  the 
oracles  of  the  Sibyl :  this  unheard-of  amalgam  of 
lyricism  and  prose  revolts  simple-minded  people, 
and  the  more  so  because  Meredith's  style  is  not 
always  orthodox.  How  many  illustrious  reformers 
have  found  themselves  in  a  similar  position ! 
They  begin  by  expedients.  They  establish  a  new 
coinage  upon  whose  currency  they  insist.  .  .  . 
Lucretius,  for  example,  at  the  time  of  transplanting 
philosophic  poetry  into  Rome,  excuses  himself  on 
account  of  the  poverty  of  the  language,  and  the 
newness  of  ideas  for  creating  some  unusual  words  : 

"  Propter  egestatem  linguae  et  rerum  novitatem." 
Though  Meredith  does  not  coin  new  words,  he  has 
recourse  to  a  style  more  vigorous,  more  alert,  more 
elastic,  in  order  to  pass,  without  any  hesitation, 
from  one  plane  of  thought  to  another.  In  his  own 
phrase,  we  see  the  words  stretched  to  the  limit  of 
their  meaning,  just  as  we  see  upon  the  body  of  the 
athlete  the  vertebrae  almost  pressing  through  the 


176  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

skin.  To  juggle  with  fancies,  speculations,  humour 
and  melodrama,  necessitates  the  most  terrible 
twists  and  turns.  It  is  not  therefore  strange  that 
Mr.  George  Moore  and  Oscar  Wilde  should  have 
surprised  George  Meredith  at  his  thankless  task  of 
athlete.  But  the  strangest  part  of  it  is,  that  the 
nobleness  of  such  an  effort  should  have  touched 
neither  one  nor  the  other. 

The  papers  have  rivalled  each  other  in  declaring 
that  the  author  of  The  Egoist  only  condescends  to 
explain  himself  in  Meredithian  ;  that  his  phrases  are 
jargon,  hardly  intelligible.  This  sarcasm  pricked 
to  the  quick  the  great  writer,  and  he  complained  to 
Mr.  Edward  Clodd  :  "  They  have  made  my  name 
an  adjective  !  "  1  Apparently  he  expected  rather 
to  receive  thanks  for  having  rendered  supple  a  rigid 
and  mechanical  syntax  without  having  weakened 
it.  Thanks  to  the  wizard  Meredith,  English  idiom 
is  emancipated,  soars  high  and  passionately  speaks 
from  there,  even  as  the  lark  itself  in  its  morning 
song.  .  .  .  Certainly  the  laws  of  proportion  condemn 
the  first  sixty  pages  of  One  of  our  Conquerors  :  they 
describe  to  us,  with  an  animation  really  too  detailed, 
the  pangs  of  a  gentleman  who  discovers  a  spot  of 
mud  upon  his  immaculate  white  waistcoat.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  Meredith's  ideas  become  entangled  like 
carts  in  a  crowded  thoroughfare.  Sometimes,  by 
means  of  peering  at  the  world  as  through  a  magnify- 

1  Edward  Clodd,  article  mentioned. 


HIS    ART  177 

ing-glass,  he  gives  us  the  nightmare.  .  .  .  But  of  such 
idiosyncrasies,  there  are  scarcely  any  in  Evan 
Harrington  or  Harry  Richmond.  Never  was  adven- 
ture more  merrily  sustained  than  in  The  Case  of 
General  Ople  and  Lady  Camper.  And  The  Story  of 
Bhanavar  the  Beautiful,  that  intoxicating  interlude 
in  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,  what  a  marvellous 
example  of  liquid  narration,  flowing  and  imagina- 
tive !  .  .  . 

When  the  beds  of  Procrustes  were  not  too  long, 
they  were  too  short.  .  .  .  Similarly,  this  cramming 
together  of  lively  emotions  and  of  rational  ideas 
alternates,  in  the  case  of  Meredith,  with  lacunae, 
nay,  even  with  crevasses.  He  eliminates  with 
excessive  rigour  all  that  lacks  relief.  In  contrast  to 
a  Tolstoy,  who  assigns  to  the  most  simple  incidents 
of  daily  life  a  solemn  meaning  ;  in  contrast  to  a 
Maeterlinck,  so  ready  to  scent  from  afar  some 
mystery,  Meredith  essays  to  sift  circumstances,  to 
weigh  them  with  care,  and  with  a  result  always 
beneficial  to  sound  judgment  and  art.  .  .  .  But 
this  excessively  careful  selection  is  apt  to  render 
him  obscure.  It  is  from  excess  of  scruple  that  he 
acquires  his  defects  :  something  rugged  and  aloof, 
a  lack  of  cohesion  ;  something  artificial,  abrupt, 
spasmodic.  .  .  .  Through  dislike  of  the  superfluous, 
and  in  order  to  obtain  the  essence  of  things,  he  cuts 
short  his  transitions,  omits  adjectives,  withdraws 
the   verb,    suppresses   the   pronoun,    excludes   the 

N 


178  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

article  and  breaks  up  the  conjunction.  .  .  .  He  is 
like  the  strange  rivers  of  Illyria,  which  are  swallowed 
up  under  the  earth  only  to  appear  again  at  some 
distance,  bubbling  to  the  surface  and  stretching  out 
into  noble  streams. 

His  intellectual  swiftness  allows  him  to  wind  a 
subtle  skein  of  syllogisms,  whose  connections  he 
dexterously  conceals.  In  vain  does  the  reader 
protest ;  George  Meredith  covers  his  every  trace. 
Finally,  by  way  of  ellipses,  which  are  merely  implied 
by  way  of  amazing  and  enigmatical  omissions,  he 
tracks  down  the  most  evanescent  thought.  In 
proportion  as  he  advances  in  age,  as  his  thought 
becomes  distilled,  his  disdain  for  mediocrity,  for 
banality,  increases  ;  he  only  dreams  of  singular 
people  in  extraordinary  positions  :  a  pedagogue  for 
lunatic  asylums,  Sir  Austin  Feverel ;  a  Greek 
merchant,  a  dilettante  and  fanatic,  Pericles  Agrio- 
lopoulos  ;x  a  man-peacock,  Sir  Willoughby  Pat- 
terne  ;2  reckless  and  ambitious  adventurers  as 
Richmond  Roy3  and  the  Countess  de  Saldar  ;4 
exalted  tribunes  as  Barto  Rizzo,5Nevil  Beauchamp,6 
Doctor  Shrapnel, 7  or  the  socialist  Alvan  ; 8  mis- 
anthropes and  hypochondriacs  such  as  Antony  Hack- 
but,9  Lord  Ormont10  and  Lord  Fleetwood.11  .  .  . 

"  An  eccentric  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Lovell,12  "  but  that 

1  Sandra  Belloni  and   Vittoria.  2  The  Egoist. 

3  Harry  Richmond.  4  Evan  Harrington.  5    Vittoria. 

B  Yieauchamp's  Career.       7  Ibid.      8  The  Tragic  Comedians. 
9  Rhoda  Fleming.  10  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta. 

11  The  Amazing  Marriage.     ia  Rhoda  Fleming,  Chapter  XXVII. 


HIS    ART  179 

merely  means  hors  du  commun.  The  eccentric  can 
perfectly  well  be  natural." 

However,  despite  his  affectionate  leaning  towards 
queer  characters,  Meredith  always  glorifies  the 
excellence  of  men  of  balance  ;  men  who  are  dis- 
ciplined and  wholly  masters  of  body,  mind  and 
spirit :  Vernon  Whitf ord, *  Merthyr  Powys, 2  Dartrey 
Fenellan,3  or  Redworth.4  .  .  .  It  is  for  such  as  these 
that  he  reserves  his  most  tender  affection.  .  .  . 

When  a  poet  soars  from  height  to  height  without 
ever  touching  the  earth,  it  is  most  glorious.  But 
how  shall  a  novelist  vie  with  the  eagles  or  meteors, 
forced  to  be,  according  to  circumstances,  either 
architect  or  engineer  ?  It  is  not  possible,  and 
George  Meredith  knows  this  as  well  as  anyone.  But 
he  resigns  himself  with  such  vexation  to  his  task, 
that  he  does  not  take  the  trouble  to  conceal  his 
workmanship,  and  he  exhibits  to  us  his  machinery 
in  such  a  way  as  to  destroy  the  illusion.  His 
catastrophes  sometimes  are  thrust  upon  us  with 
startling  suddenness.  Can  we  believe  that  his 
Diana,5 — that  young  woman,  not  only  intelligent 
but  pure,  worthy,  proud  and  of  a  magnanimous 
heart, — suddenly  sells  to  an  editor  a  dangerous  State 
secret,  which  a  friend  has  confided  to  her  ?  Simi- 
larly, in  Modem  Love,  because  the  author  does  not 

1  The  Egoist.  a  Sandra  Belloni  and  Vittoria. 

3  One  of  our  Conquerors.       *  Diana  of  the  Crossways. 
5  Diana  of  the  Crossways. 


180  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

expressly  state  that  the  heroine  dies,  certain  persons 
have  essayed  to  believe  that  she  outlived  her 
painful  experiences.1  We  are  equally  amazed  at  the 
birth  of  a  son  to  Carinthia.  It  even  becomes  a  sport 
for  the  readers  of  The  Amazing  Marriage  to  con- 
struct hypotheses  upon  the  relations  between  Lord 
Fleetwood  and  his  wife.  Such  expressions  as  these 
are  whispered  in  the  ear  :  "  You  remember  that 
village  inn,  that  midnight  climb  by  the  ladder 
leaning  against  the  window  ?  Do  you  understand  ? 
Ah,  well !    Yes,  that's  it  ...  it  was  then.  ..." 

And  Meredith  good  temperedly  admitted  this  to 
be  so  and  said  :  "  It  is  not  The  Amazing  Marriage 
which  I  should  have  called  my  book,  but  The 
Amazing  Babe.  ..." 

A  letter  which  has  been  already  mentioned,  and 
which  was  written  to  an  admirer  across  the  water  on 
the  22nd  of  July,  1887,  shows  us  what  value  Meredith 
set  upon  his  technique  : 

"  When  at  the  conclusion  of  your  article  on  my 
works,  you  say  that  a  certain  change  in  public  taste, 
should  it  come  about,  will  be  to  some  extent  due  to 
me,  you  hand  me  the  flowering  wreath  I  covet.  For 
I  think  that  all  right  use  of  life,  and  the  one  secret 
of  life,  is  to  pave  ways  for  the  firmer  footing  of  those 
who  succeed  us  ;  as  to  my  works,  I  know  them 
faulty,  think  them  of  worth  only  when  they  point 

1  La  Nouvelle  Revue  Francaise,  ist  of  September,  1910,  p.  358. 


HIS    ART  181 

and  aid  to  that  end.  Close  knowledge  of  our  fellows, 
discernment  of  the  laws  of  existence,  these  lead  to 
great  civilisation.  I  have  supposed  that  the  novel, 
exposing  and  illustrating  the  natural  history  of  man, 
may  help  us  to  such  sustaining  roadside  gifts. 
But  I  have  never  started  on  a  novel  to  pursue 
the  theory  it  developed.  The  dominant  idea  in 
my  mind  took  up  the  characters  and  the  story 
midway. 

"  You  say  that  there  are  few  scenes.  Is  it  so 
throughout  ?  My  method  has  been  to  prepare  my 
readers  for  a  crucial  exhibition  of  the  persons,  and 
then  to  give  the  scene  in  the  fullest  of  their  blood  and 
brain  under  stress  of  a  fiery  situation. 

"Concerning  style,  thought  is  tough,  and  dealing 
with  thought  produces  toughness.  Or  when  strong 
emotion  is  in  tide  against  the  active  mind,  there  is 
perforce  confusion.  Have  you  found  that  scenes  of 
simple  emotion  or  plain  narrative  were  hard  to 
view  ?  When  their  author  revised  for  the  new 
edition,  his  critical  judgment  approved  these 
passages.  Yet  you  are  not  to  imagine  that  he  holds 
his  opinion  combatively  against  his  critics.  The 
verdict  is  with  the  observer. 

"In  the  Comedies,1  and  here  and  there  where  a 
concentrated  presentment  is  in  design,  you  will  find 
a  '  pitch  '  considerably  above  our  common  human  ; 
and  purposely,  for  only  in  such  a  manner  could  so 
much  be  shown.  Those  high  notes  and  condensings 
are  abandoned  when  the  strong  human  call  is  heard 

1  Meredith  applies  the  term  of  comedy  to  certain  of  his 
novels.    The  subtitle  of  The  Egoist  is :  A  Comedy  in  Narrative. 


182  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

— I  beg  you  to  understand  merely  that  such  was  my 
intention. 

"  Again,  when  you  tell  me  that  Harvard  has  the 
works,  and  that  young  Harvard  reads  them,  the 
news  is  of  a  kind  to  prompt  me  to  fresh  productive- 
ness and  higher.  In  England  I  am  encouraged  but 
by  a  few  enthusiasts.  I  read  in  a  critical  review  of 
Rome  verses  of  mine  the  other  day  that  I  was  a 
harlequin  and  a  performer  of  antics.  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  that  kind  of  writing,  as  our  hustings 
orator  is  to  the  dead  cat  and  the  brickbat  flung  in  his 
face — at  which  he  smiles  politely  ;  and  I  too  ;  but 
after  many  years  of  it  my  mind  looks  elsewhere. ..." 

What  exactly  is  this  "  concentrated  present- 
ment "  ? 

When  Meredith  wishes  to  fix  our  attention  upon 
a  point,  he  finds  all  devices  useful,  and  uses  them 
at  his  own  convenience.  Small  verses  of  ethical 
tendency,  condensed  into  the  poetic  prose  of 
Shagpat,  aphorisms  of  the  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  which 
enlighten  us — as  well  as  Adrian  Harley's  epigrams, 
or  the  wise  and  pleasant  speeches  of  Lady  Blandish — 
upon  the  ordeal  imposed  upon  Richard  Feverel ; 
frequent  philosophic  interruptions,  always  gladly 
inserted  by  the  novelist  in  Sandra  Belloni ;  the 
assertive  register  of  egoism,  of  which  he  takes  an 
inventory  at  the  commencement  of  The  Egoist ;  the 
orderly  dissertation  upon  diaries  and  diarists  with 
which  he  introduces  Diana  of  the  Crossways  ;    in 


HIS    ART  183 

The  Amazing  Marriage  the  tales  of  Dame  Gossip 
alternate  with  apocryphal  adages  from  a  Book  of 
Maxims — all  these  resources,  all  these  formulae  of  a 
"  concentrated  presentment,"  all  this  display  has 
no  other  object  than  to  furnish  us  with  more  precise 
information. 

This  studious  preparation  reminds  one  of  Werlher, 
Wilhelm  Meister  and  of  the  Wahlverwandtschaften. 
...  In  fact,  Meredith  owed  a  permanent  debt  to 
Germany  as  a  result  of  his  education.  And  that  he 
freely  associates  himself  with  Goethe  or  Heine  is 
certainly  not  to  his  detriment.  But  one  can  only 
regret  that  he  shares,  with  the  Germans,  their 
fetishism  for  certain  false  gods :  for  example, 
Jean-Paul  ?  .  .  .  Alas  !  he  has  suffered  from  their 
influence.  ...  A  labyrinthine  maze  of  digressions, 
half  learned,  half  comical,  an  indigestible  potpourri 
of  things  trivial  and  sublime,  spoil  for  us  his  youth- 
ful production  Farina,  and  even  certain  parts 
of  The  Egoist. 

In  revenge,  when  once  Meredith  has  set  us  going 
with  the  story,  he  unexpectedly  changes  his  method. 
He  casts  aside  his  crutches.  The  action  hastens  on. 
The  dialogue  clinches  more  firmly.  Pricks  of  the 
sword-point,  feints,  thrusts  and  replies  succeed  each 
other  unceasingly.  This  forms  a  violent  contrast 
to  the  peaceful  pace  of  the  opening  chapters,  and 
only  renders  more  telling  the  final  outburst. 


184  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Parallel  with  this,  Meredith  inaugurates  another 
composition,  another  style,  another  language.  .  .  . 
After  the  German  influence,  discernible  in  prolix, 
copious  and  ceremonious  phraseology,  with  sentences 
stuffed  with  learned  words,  and  saturated  with 
erudite  allusions,  where  incidents  are  insinuated 
and  incrusted  with  so  much  complacency,  there 
appears  the  French  method  :  phrases  clear,  rapid 
and  short,  of  a  soberness  and  edge,  like  to  those  of 
Voltaire.  They  recall — with  less  dryness — phrases 
of  Laclos,  of  Merimee  or  of  Stendhal.  .  .  .  But  has 
not  Meredith  rather  the  effervescence  of  a  Michelet, 
the  passions  and  transports  of  a  Saint-Simon  ?  In 
fact  Evan  Harrington,  Harry  Richmond,  Lord 
Ormont  and  his  Aminta,  in  their  most  beautiful 
chapters,  have  the  vigour  of  the  famous  Memoir  es. 
George  Meredith  himself  reveals  to  us  this  relation- 
ship. Questioned  about  his  literary  preferences,  he 
mentions  Saint-Simon's  character-sketch  of  the 
Regent  Orleans.  .  .  .* 

Whoever  seeks  to  ascertain  what  authors  have 
influenced  Meredith,  let, him  not  linger  with  Fielding 
nor  Richardson.  But  before  all,  let  him  think  of 
Nevil  Beauchamp's  favourite  author,  that  fantastic 
and  eccentric  Carlyle.  Meredith  endows  him  with 
certain  traits,  which  are  more  applicable  to  himself  : 

"  His  favourite  author  was  one  writing  of  Heroes, 

1  See  the  bibliography  of  Mr.  John  Lane,  p.  xlvii  in  George 
Meredith,  by  Mr.  Richard  Lc  Gallienne. 


HIS    ART  185 

in  (so  she  esteemed  it)  a  style  resembling  either  early 
architecture  or  utter  dilapidation,  so  loose  and  rough 
it  seemed ;  a  wind-in-the-orchard  style,  that 
tumbled  down  here  and  there  an  appreciable  fruit 
with  uncouth  bluster ;  sentences  without  com- 
mencements running  to  abrupt  endings  and  smoke, 
like  waves  against  a  sea-wall,  learned  dictionary 
words  giving  a  hand  to  street-slang,  and  accents 
falling  on  them  haphazard,  like  slant  rays  from 
driving  clouds  ;  all  the  pages  in  a  breeze,  the  whole 
book  producing  a  kind  of  electrical  agitation  in  the 
mind  and  the  joints.  .  .  ."  1 

Such  is  the  bewildering  method  that  we  have 
already  indicated  in  The  Lark  Ascending.  Thus  we 
return  to  the  point  where  we  digressed,  and  consider 
the  accumulation  of  ideas,  roughly  held  together, 
without  mortar  or  cement,  resembling  unhewn 
rocks  in  Cyclopean  constructions.  But  what  the 
most  brilliant  of  comparisons  cannot  express — even 
if  they  were  Meredithian ! — is  the  charm  and 
atmosphere  of  his  style,  that  hidden  soul  of  things 
which  he  loves  to  unveil.  There  is  something  in 
him  which  is  irreducible.  A  paraphrase,  even  an 
ingenious  one,  always  allows  the  essential  thing  to 
escape  :  those  indefinite  extensions,  that  radiant 
haze,  that  ever-recurring  mystery,  surcharged  with 
vague  presentiments,  which  Goethe  prized  so  highly, 
that  he  designated  it  by  the  German  epithet  ahnungs- 
voll.  ... 

1  Beauchamp's  Career. 


186  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

In  Saint-Simon,  as  in  Carlyle,  that  which  fascin- 
ated Meredith  was  the  clarion  voice,  the  sensation  of 
shock.  .  .  .  This  liking  for  extremes  and  for  intensity 
produced  his  desire  to  deepen  and  to  widen  the 
scope  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  and  to  develop  both 
to  the  furthest  possible  extent.  Never  was  ridicule 
administered  with  greater  strength  and  skill,  whether 
bitter  satire  or  gentle  irony.  The  Egoist,  seen  from 
this  point  of  view,  is  a  miracle  of  discernment. 

As  the  fox  in  La  Fontaine  slyly  exhorts  the  raven 
to  croak,  so  Meredith  encourages  his  hero  to  divest 
himself  of  all  covering,  that  we  may  stand  amazed 
at  his  glorious  nakedness.  The  stratagem  succeeds 
only  too  well :  "  the  egoist,"  with  an  eagerness  that 
is  grotesque,  casting  aside  his  every  garment ;  con- 
vinced beforehand  of  his  success,  joyful  and  proud, 
Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  artlessly  lays  bare  his  most 
hideous  deformities.  .  .  .  And  we  do  not  laugh. 
We  turn  away,  because  this  loathsome  man  resembles 
us  even  as  a  brother,  and  we  tremble  lest  someone 
should  notice  the  likeness.  Suppose  Willoughby 
Patterne  were  to  mock  us  !  Suppose  he  were  to  cry 
out  suddenly  with  a  devilish  sneer  : 

'  Tu  le  connais,  lecteur,  ce  monstre  delicat, 
Hypocrite  lecteur,  mon  semblable,  rnon  frere  !  n 

Such  a  thing  did  actually  occur.  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  relates2  that  Meredith  saw  one  of  his 

1  Charles  Baudelaire,  Les  Flairs  du  Mai,  Preface. 

2  The  Art  of  Writing. 


HIS    ART  187 

young  friends  running  to  his  house,  on  the  day  after 
the  publication  of  The  Egoist.  The  young  man,  quite 
distracted,  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice  :  "  It  is 
disgraceful !  it  is  abominable  !  .  .  .  Willoughby  is 
myself  !  "  .  .  .  The  poet  replied  :  "  My  dear  fellow, 
calm  yourself  !  .  .  .  Willoughby  is  every  one  of 
us.  .  .  ." 

Despite  this  benevolent  assurance,  we  feel  a 
vague  uneasiness ;  an  apprehension  of  seeing  a 
life-like  picture  of  ourselves,  each  time  that  Sir 
Willoughby  Patterne,  the  very  quintessence  of 
egoism,  martyrises  that  poor  Letitia  Dale,  with 
whom  he  has  trifled  for  so  many  years. 

"  '  And  you  are  well  ?  '  The  anxious  question 
permitted  him  to  read  deeply  in  her  eyes.  He  found 
the  man  he  sought  there,  squeezed  him  passionately, 
and  let  her  go.  .  .  ."  1 

Irritating  badinage  which  torments,  which  soon 
plays  upon  our  nerves.  It  is  torture  to  analyse  in 
spite  of  ourselves,  in  the  soul  of  a  Narcissus,  the 
myriad  hateful  illusions  of  self-conceit.  The  reader 
stumbles  when  satire  mingles  with  drama  !  Is  that 
fantastic  chapter  from  Sandra  Belloni  right  in 
suggesting  that  "  the  comic  mask  has  some  kinship 
with  the  skull  "  ?  2  Perhaps  !  We  are  inclined 
to  think  so — the  more  so  that  one  is  in  doubt  whether 
the  scene,  where  Major  Percy  Waring  urges  Mrs.  Lovell 
to  marry  him,  is  mere  pleasantry  or  poignant  fact : 

1  The  Egoist.        2  Sandra  Belloni,  title  of  Chapter  XXVI. 


188  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

"  Yes  ;  you  will  be  mine  !  Half  my  love  of  my 
country  and  my  profession  is  love  of  you.  Margaret 
is  fire  in  my  blood.  I  used  to  pray  for  opportunities, 
that  Margaret  might  hear  of  me.  I  knew  that 
gallant  actions  touched  her  ;  I  would  have  fallen 
gladly  ;  I  was  sure  her  heart  would  leap  when  she 
heard  of  me.     Let  it  beat  against  mine.     Speak  !  " 

"  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell,  and  she  suppressed 
the  throbs  of  her  bosom.  Her  voice  was  harsh  and 
her  face  bloodless.  "  How  much  money  have  you, 
Percy  ?  " 

This  sudden  sluicing  of  cold  water  on  his  heat  of 
passion  petrified  him. 

"  Money,"  he  said,  with  a  strange  frigid  scrutiny 
of  her  features.  As  in  the  flash  of  a  mirror,  he  beheld 
her  bony,  worn,  sordid,  unacceptable.  But  he  was 
fain  to  admit  it  to  be  an  eminently  proper  demand 
for  enlightenment. 

He  said  deliberately,  "  I  possess  an  income  of  five 
hundred  a  year,  extraneous,  and  in  addition  to  my 
pay  as  major  in  Her  Majesty's  service." 

Then  he  paused,  and  the  silence  was  like  a  growing 
chasm  between  them. 

She  broke  it  by  saying,  "  Have  you  any  expecta- 
tions ?  " 

This  was  crueller  still,  though  no  longer  astonish- 
ing. He  complained  in  his  heart  merely  that  her 
voice  had  become  so  unpleasant. 

With  emotionless  precision  he  replied,  "  At  my 
mother's  death " 


HIS    ART  189 

She  interposed  a  soft  exclamation. 

"  At  my  mother's  death  there  will  come  to  me,  by 
reversion,  five  or  six  thousand  pounds.  When  my 
father  dies,  he  may  possibly  bequeath  his  property 
to  me.    On  that  I  cannot  count." 

Veritable  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  Was  she 
affecting  to  weep  sympathetically  in  view  of  these 
remote  contingencies  ?  x 

We  have  now  reached  the  limits  of  comedy. 
Shall  we  remain  here  ? 

No,  let  us  leap  over  !  .  .  .  Once  in  the  domain  of 
the  tragic,  we  have  no  hesitation  in  stating  that 
Meredith's  pathos  at  least  equals  his  spirit  of  humour. 
The  conclusions  of  his  novels,  especially,  always 
heart-rending,  lamentable  and  disastrous,  choke  us 
with  their  sadness.  One  cannot  even  weep  !  The 
only  happy  ending  is  that  of  The  Shaving  of  Shag- 
pat  ;  but  even  Shibli  Bagarag  lays  his  enemy  low 
only  after  a  superhuman  struggle.  Everywhere 
besides,  the  defeated  and  the  tormented,  the 
innocent  and  the  guilty,  are  precipitated  pell-mell 
into  the  same  abyss.  .  .  .  There  is  Richard  Feverel's 
duel  and  his  young  wife's  madness  ;  the  dolorous 
epilogue  of  Modem  Love  ;  Rhoda  Fleming's  distrac- 
tion among  the  violated  sacks  of  gold  ;  the  supreme 
atonement  of  Victor  Radnor  and  his  companion  at 

1  Rhoda  Fleming. 


190  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Mrs.  Burman's  *  death-bed  ;  the  quarrel  between 
Lady  Charlotte  Eglett  and  her  brother  Lord  Ormont 
over  their  jewels  ;  the  terrible  family  meeting  in 
which  Mr.  Beltham  assails  his  son-in-law,  Rich- 
mond Roy,  with  such  furious  invective.  .  .  .2 

The  hold  such  incidents  have  upon  the  mind  is 
the  more  tenacious,  in  that  they  do  not  fail  to  please, 
for  all  the  amazement  they  cause.  The  art  of  the 
dramatist  consists  in  giving  apparent  shocks  :  now, 
the  scenes  of  which  we  have  made  mention,  abruptly 
strong  though  they  may  be,  are  led  up  to  by  a  most 
ingenious  sequence  of  events.  Meredith  himself 
valued  and  extolled  that  crescendo,  that  chromatic 
scale  of  intensity,  that  ceaseless  quickening  of 
rhythm,  when  he  said  of  the  correspondence  between 
Robert  Browning  and  his  wife  : 

My  first  feeling  was  adverse  to  the  publication, 
but  this  wore  away  on  reading  them,  because  of 
the  high  level  reached.  You  see  Browning's  love 
for  the  unattractive-looking  invalid,  and  watch  the 
growth  of  love  in  her,  as  it  were,  under  the  micro- 
scope. You  see  a  spark  of  life,  then  the  tiny  red 
spot  that  shall  be  a  heart,  then  the  full  pulsation  of 
each  blood-corpuscle.  So  Browning  made  her  a 
woman  !3 

Whenever  nervous  excitability  does  not  carry  him 
away,   whenever  he   resists  his   caprice,   Meredith 

1  One  of  our  Conquerors. 

2  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond. 

3  Edward  Clodd,  same  article. 


HIS    ART  191 

brings  about  his  final  issues  by  this  very  identical 
process.  Everything  tends  to  strengthen  the 
conclusion,  to  make  it  more  trenchant,  more 
penetrating, — the  virile  simplicity  of  expression,  the 
choice  of  time  or  of  place,  the  ornament,  the  blinding 
rays  of  light  which  he  projects  upon  souls  hitherto 
veiled  and  intangible, — so  that  his  final  stage-effect 
is  also  the  final  stroke  of  his  brush. 

Consider,  for  example,  The  Adventures  of  Harry 
Richmond.  Another  writer  would  have  ended  this 
romance  sooner  :  at  the  point  where  Mr.  Beltham 
exposes  his  son-in-law,  Richmond  Roy,  as  a  low 
mountebank,  as  "an  impostor  at  the  expense  of  a 
provincial  spinster."  But  George  Meredith  goes 
farther.  He  gives  Richmond  Roy  an  end  more 
conformable  with  his  genius,  more  appropriate  to 
his  sumptuous,  magnificent  and  daring  nature.  He 
describes  that  autumn  evening  in  the  country, 
when  Harry  Richmond,  after  many  adventures, 
returns  with  his  wife  Janet  to  Riversley  Grange.  .  . . 

And  what  but  psychology  in  action  and  psy- 
chology of  the  finest  quality  is  that  final  scene, 
where  the  beautiful  Bhanavar,  the  wise  and  daring 
queen  of  serpents,  assailed  by  her  mutinous  vassals, 
forgets  her  beauty,  the  desire  for  vengeance,  the 
impending  menace,  the  imminent  peril,  in  order  to 
cast  one  long  look  of  love  upon  the  Arab  chief,  her 
lover  ? x  King  Mashalleed  is  watching  her,  surrounded 

1  "The  Story  of  Bhanavar  the  Beautiful"  in  The  Shaving  of 
Shagpat. 


192  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

by  his  guards.  But  Bhanavar  the  Beautiful,  in- 
toxicated with  love  and  passion,  has  thoughts  only 
of  Ruark  her  lover.  .  .  . 

Bhanavar  turned  her  eyes  on  Ruark,  and  said 
sweetly,  "  Yet  shalt  thou  live  to  taste  again  the 
bliss  of  the  Desert.  Pleasant  was  our  time  in  it,  O 
my  Chief  !  "  The  King  glared  and  choked,  and 
she  said  again,  "  Nor  he  conquered  thee,  but  I  ; 
and  I  that  conquered  thee,  little  will  it  be  for  me  to 
conquer  him  :  his  threats  are  the  winds  of  idleness." 

Surely  the  world  darkened  before  the  eyes  of 
Mashalleed,  and  he  arose  and  called  to  his  guard 
hoarsely,  "  Have  off  their  heads  !  '  They  hesitated, 
dreading  the  Queen,  and  he  roared,  "  Slay  them  !  ' 

Bhanavar  beheld  the  winking  of  the  steel,  but  ere 

the  scimitars  descended,  she  seized  Ruark,  and  they 

stood  in  a  whizzing  ring  of  Serpents,  the  sound  of 

whom  was  as  the  hum  of  a  thousand  wires  struck 

by  storm-winds.     Then  she  glowed,  towering  over 

them  with  the  Chief  clasped  to  her,  and  crying  : 

King  of  vileness  !   match  thy  slaves 
With  my  creatures  of  the  caves. 

And  she  sang  to  the  Serpents  : 

Seize  upon  him  !    sting  him  thro' 
Thrice  this  day  shall  pay  your  due. 

But  they,  instead  of  obeying  her  injunction,  made 

narrower    their    circle    round    Bhanavar    and    the 

Chief.     She  yellowed,  and  took  hold  of  the  nearest 

Serpent  horribly,  crying  : 

Dare  against  me  to  rebel, 
Ye,  the  bitter  brood  of  hell  ? 


HIS    ART  193 

And  the  Serpent  gasped  in  reply  : 

One  the  kiss  to  us  secures  : 
Give  us  ours,  and  we  are  yours. 

Thereupon  another  of  the  Serpents  swung   on  the 

feet  of  Ruark,  winding  his  length  upward  round  the 

body  of  the  Chief  ;  so  she  tugged  at  that  one,  tearing 

it  from  him  violently,  and  crying  : 

Him  ye  shall  not  have,  I  swear  ! 
Seize  the  King  that's  crouching  there. 

And  that  Serpent  hissed  : 

This  is  he  the  kiss  ensures  : 
Give  us  ours,  and  we  are  yours. 

Another  and  another  Serpent  she  flung  from  the 
Chief,  and  they  began  to  swarm  venomously, 
answering  her  no  more.  Then  Ruark  bore  witness 
to  his  faith,  and  folded  his  arms  with  the  grave 
smile  she  had  known  in  the  desert ;  and  Bhanavar 
struggled  and  tussled  with  the  Serpents  in  fierceness, 
strangling  and  tossing  them  to  right  and  left. 

"  Great  is  Allah  !  "  cried  all  present,  and  the  King 
trembled,  for  never  was  sight  like  that  seen,  the 
hall  flashing  with  the  Serpents,  and  a  woman- 
Serpent,  their  Queen,  raging  to  save  one  from  their 
fury,  shrieking  at  intervals  : 

Never,  never  shall  ye  fold, 
Save  with  me  the  man  I  hold. 

But  now  the  hiss  and  scream  of  the  Serpents  and 

the  noise  of  their  circling  was  quickened  to  a  slurred 

savage  sound,  and  they  closed  on  Ruark,  and  she 

felt  him  stifling  and  that  they  were  relentless.     So 

o 


194  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

in  the  height  of  the  tempest  Bhanavar  seized  the 
Jewel  in  the  gold  circlet  on  her  brow  and  cast  it 
from  her.  Lo  !  the  Serpents  instantly  abated  their 
frenzy,  and  flew  all  of  them  to  pluck  the  Jewel, 
chasing  the  one  that  had  it  in  his  fangs  through  the 
casement,  and  the  hall  breathed  empty  of  them. 
Then  in  the  silence  that  was,  Bhanavar  veiled  her  face 
and  said  to  the  Chief,  "  Pass  from  the  hall  while  they 
yet  dread  me.    No  longer  am  I  Queen  of  Serpents." 

But  he  replied,  "  Nay  !  said  I  not  my  soul  is 
thine  ?  " 

She  cried  to  him,  "  Seest  thou  not  the  change  in 
me  ?  I  was  bound  to  those  Serpents  for  my  beauty, 
and  'tis  gone  !  Now  am  I  powerless,  hateful  to  look 
on,  O  Ruark,  my  Chief  !  " 

He  remained  still,  saying,  "  What  thou  hast  been 
thou  art." 

She  exclaimed,  "  O  true  soul,  the  light  is  hateful 
to  me  as  I  to  the  light ;  but  I  will  yet  save  thee  to 
comfort  Rukrooth,  thy  mother." 

So  she  drew  him  with  her  swiftly  from  the  hall  of 
the  King  ere  the  King  had  recovered  his  voice  of 
command ;  but  now  the  wrath  of  the  All-powerful 
was  upon  her  and  him  !  Surely  within  an  hour  from 
the  flight  of  the  Serpents,  the  slaves  and  soldiers  of 
Mashalleed  laid  at  his  feet  two  heads  that  were  the 
heads  of  Ruark  and  Bhanavar  ;  and  they  said, 
"  O  great  King,  we  tracked  them  to  her  chamber 
and  through  to  a  passage  and  a  vault  hung  with 


HIS    ART  195 

black,  wherein  were  two  corpses,  one  in  a  tomb  and 
one  unburied,  and  we  slew  them  there,  clasping  each 
other,  O  King  of  the  age  !  " 

Mashalleed  gazed  upon  the  head  of  Bhanavar 
and  sighed,  for  death  had  made  the  head  again  fair 
with  a  wondrous  beauty,  a  loveliness  never  before 
seen  on  earth. 

It  is  necessary  to  have  read  in  the  text  such  great 
masterpieces,  to  know  them  in  their  proper  setting  and 
atmosphere,  in  order  to  realise  how  far  dramatic 
intensity  can  attain  outside  an  actual  play  and  to  sym- 
pathise with  those  fervent  admirers  who  have  compared 
George  Meredith  to  William  Shakespeare. 

But  we  may  ask :  "  Why  this  comparison  to  a 
dramatist  ?  Why  mention  the  great  name  of 
Shakespeare  ?  " 

Visionaries  both,  Shakespeare  and  Meredith  felt 
with  equal  intensity.  They  catch  glimpses  of  the 
world  and  of  mankind,  as  a  traveller  by  night  sees 
the  country-side  in  the  brilliance  of  a  sudden 
lightning-flash.  With  the  obvious  differences  of 
circumstance  and  place,  Meredith  presents  his  Sir 
Willoughby  Patterne  as  Shakespeare  presents  his 
Richard  III.  The  perplexed  egoist,  who  demands 
a  bride  at  any  cost  in  order  to  safeguard  his 
"amour-propre,"  is  no  less  real  than  the  royal 
assassin  who  cries :  "A  horse !  a  horse !  my 
kingdom  for  a  horse  !  "  .  .  . 

Meredith  has  related  his  first  meeting  with  one  of 


196  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

his  most  characteristic  personages.     It  was  really 
Shakespearian  : 

"  When  Harry  Richmond's  father  first  met  me, 
when  I  heard  the  pompous  speech  of  this  son  of  a 
royal  duke,  and  of  an  actress  of  seventeen,  I  remem- 
ber having  broken  out  into  peals  of  laughter  !  "  1 

Yes,  Meredith  bears  a  greater  resemblance  to 
Shakespeare  than  any  other  novelist.  How  shall 
we  compare  our  Balzac  with  Meredith,  for  example  ? 
.  .  .  The  former  rigidly  arranges  his  characters  in 
the  period  in  France  conformable  with  the  fifty  years 
1789  to  1839  ;  and  presents  to  us  prototypes  clothed, 
arranged  and  furnished  in  the  manner  of  Rastignac 
and  Maxime  de  Trailles.  But  Meredith's  heroes  only 
disclose  the  most  precious,  the  most  hidden  part  of 
their  being.  As  far  as  appearance  and  behaviour 
are  concerned,  one  could  mistake  these  nineteenth- 
century  characters  for  natives  of  Ophir  or  of  Thule, 
or  for  contemporaries  of  Swift,  Sheridan,  Sterne  and 
Smollett. 

Let  us  at  once  say  that  they  are  not  personages ; 
still  less  types  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  ; 
but  rather  epitomes  of  types,  animated  by  a  life 
altogether  uncreate,  as  Alceste,  the  melancholy 
Jacques,  Harpagon  or  Shylock.  We  have  never 
seen  them ;  there  is  no  probability  of  our  ever 
meeting  them  ; — although  we  know  them  well.   They 

1  Marcel  Schwob,  SpiciUge. 


HIS    ART  197 

may  well  be  incompatible  with  a  society  such  as 
ours.  However,  although  occasionally  they  do 
resemble  certain  definite  individuals,  they  are 
wondrously  typical  of  their  class  as  a  body.  If  they 
are  not  real,  nor  "  life-like  "  as  are  the  heroes  of 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  Balzac  or  Flaubert,  they  are 
truer,  more  significant,  for  they  partake  of  that 
permanence  of  truth,  which  Shakespeare  and 
Moliere  alone  fully  possess.  Drive  them  away, 
treat  them  as  phantoms,  as  phantoms  they  return 
and  persistently  haunt  the  memory.  A  character 
from  Dickens  passes  for  ever  from  our  remembrance 
as  soon  as  the  thread  of  adventure  is  broken.  On 
the  contrary,  Willoughby  Patterne,  Austin  Feverel, 
Richmond  Roy,  Sandra  Belloni  or  Rhoda  Fleming, 
even  if  one  forgets  some  details  of  their  career, 
remain,  thrust  themselves  upon,  and  take  possession 
of  our  fancy.  Like  Shakespeare's  creations,  they 
live  beyond  time  and  space.  They  are,  in  the  true 
sense,  characteristic.  They  are  the  offspring  only 
of  the  very  highest  art. 

But  an  art  which  is  not  distinctive  of  one  style, 
an  art  which  floats  capriciously  between  Goethe, 
Carlyle,  Saint-Simon,  Voltaire,  Jean-Paul  and 
Shakespeare,  an  art  where  all  influences,  all 
tendencies  co-exist  without  being  confounded, — can 
so  varied  an  art  have  any  unity  ?  How  can  it  be 
homogeneous  in  the  presence  of  these  living  forces 


198  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

and  outward  splendour  ?  And  if  Meredith's  art 
admits  of  no  discipline,  no  regulations,  in  what  way 
does  he  differ  from  any  "decadent  "  ?  Will  he  not 
have  mused,  in  lyric  verse  and  analytic  prose,  upon 
nuptials  a  thousand  times  more  fantastic  than  that 
between  Harry  Richmond  and  Princess  Ottilia  ? 
And  why  does  he  shrink  from  a  system  even  more 
chimerical  and  apparently  more  arbitrary  than  that 
of  Sir  Austin  Feverel  ? 

The  reply  is  simple. 

A  piece,  The  Olive  Branch,  begins  the  collection 
of  poems  of  1851.  And,  from  this  poem  down  to  the 
last  verses  of  1909,  that  which  constitutes  the  unity 
of  his  whole  work,  that  which  gives  him  his  skill,  his 
charm,  his  vast  compass,  is  his  unchanging  intel- 
lectual standard.  From  his  first  utterances  to  his 
philosophical  codicils,  through  an  immense  gallery 
of  romantic  creations,  Meredith  has  always  em- 
ployed his  genius  with  its  innumerable  resources,  for 
the  advancing  of  the  same  ideas,  the  metaphysical 
and  moral  convictions  which  constitute  his  very 
being.  It  is  thus  that  he  has  been  able  to  bring 
about,  without  loss  of  balance,  an  enterprise  far 
more  amazing  than  The  Amazing  Marriage  of  Lord 
Fleetwood  and  Carinthia  :  the  union  of  English 
poetry  and  English  prose.  And  that  is  why  it  is 
quite  in  vain  to  grapple  with  The  Egoist  or  Diana  of 
the  Crossways,  before  his  poems  have  taught  us  the 
twofold  notion  of  the  earth  and  the  spirit  of  comedy. 


CHAPTER   V 
GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  TEACHING 

MOST  poets  do  not  think  deeply.    If  they  are 
inclined  to  do  so,  they  become  pessimists. 

In  the  latter  case  they  covet  a  nirvana  after  the 
sour  manner  of  a  Hindu  recluse  ;  in  the  former  they 
plant  within  themselves  a  secret  nostalgia.  Melan- 
choly musicians  all  of  them,  they  sing  in  a  minor 
key  of  their  disenchantment.  They  suffer  from  a 
vague  chagrin  which  they  cherish  and  nourish  as  the 
source  even  of  inspiration.  Their  vagrant  curiosity 
plunges  headlong  into  every  realm  of  fancy  :  like  the 
capricious  globe-trotters  who  go  from  the  Crimea  to 
Ceylon,  from  the  lakes  of  Finland  to  the  archipelagos 
of  the  Pacific,  from  the  falls  of  Niagara  to  the  sandy 
wastes  of  the  great  Pyramid — it  never  rests,  for  it 
never  finds  either  abiding  place  or  repose. 

Poets  generally  abhor  the  present  :  for  them  there 
are  no  beautiful  women  but  those  of  ancient  times  ; 
their  joys  are  as  fleeting  as  the  snows  of  yesteryear  ; 
the  only  journeys  they  will  undertake  are  to  the 
lands  of  myth,  "anywhere  out  of  the  world."  .  .  . 
And  the  soul,  having  nothing  to  regret  but  the  past, 

199 


200  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

nothing  to  desire  but  the  future,  accepts  the  illusion 
which  comes  to  it  either  in  dream  or  intoxication. 
It  interrogates  myths,  legends,  more  rarely  history. 
A  sudden  escape  from  reality  is  Art's  ideal. 

Pour  rejouir  un  cceur  qui  hait  la  verite.  .   .   . 

Magicians  like  Coleridge,  Byron,  Shelley  or 
Swinburne,  transport  us  to  a  fairy  world  where  the 
soul's  exclusive  delight  is  to  glorify  nature  in  all  her 
myriad  moods  :  the  dawn,  the  moon,  the  multi- 
coloured twilight,  even  the  chilly  blast  which 
scatters  the  dead  leaves  of  autumn.  It  would  not 
matter  if  poets  confined  themselves  to  extolling  the 
open-air  life,  the  life  full  and  free,  the  broad  land- 
scapes bathed  in  light  !  But  they  heave  admirably 
modulated  sighs,  they  bewail  our  trite  occupations, 
they  make  lament  and  discourage  us,  so  much  so, 
that  they  make  distasteful  our  humdrum  life  with 
its  duties  and  its  cares.  And  then,  when  they  see 
us  spiritless,  and  aghast,  rebels  against  our  duties, 
well-nigh  crushed  by  the  hatred  of  it  all,  by  way  of 
tonic  and  stimulant  they  offer  us  their  perfect 
masterpieces  !  .  .  . 

For  this  reason  Plato  banished  from  his  republic 
these  too  subtle  teachers.  .  .  .  But  George  Meredith 
would  have  found  favour  in  his  eyes.  True  poet 
though  he  is,  George  Meredith  never  loses  touch 
with  reality,  and  above  all  never  attempts  to  deny 
it.     His  teaching  creates  no  gulf  between  Nature 


HIS    TEACHING  201 

and  humanity.  On  the  contrary,  it  reveals  them 
to  us  working  together  upon  the  same  task  ;  it 
affirms  that  the  most  elevated  means  of  money- 
making  cannot  be  all-absorbing,  and  readily  as- 
similates that  thoughtful  and  serene  saying  of 
the  Ramayana :  "  Duty  is  the  essence  of  the 
world." 

For  it  is  the  world  as  it  is,  not  an  ideal  world,  that 
Meredith  examines  with  his  penetrating  eyes  Even 
in  fantasy,  such  as  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,  he  never 
loses  sight  of  it.  For  him,  life  on  earth  is  not  a  time 
of  exile.  Far  from  disparaging  it  as  did  Byron,1 
Chateaubriand,  or  Empedocles,2  who  cast  himself 
headlong  into  Etna  through  sheer  lust  for  glory, 
he  recognises  in  it  at  once  the  cause,  the  indis- 
pensable condition  and  the  divine  purpose  of  our 
existence.  Could  an  architect  in  the  material  world 
build  elsewhere  than  upon  Earth  ?  He  could  not ; 
and  in  the  same  way  in  the  spiritual  world,  it  is 
solely  upon  the  conception  of  Earth  that  George 
Meredith  finds  his  ultimate  basis.  Why  should  he 
pretend  to  converse  with  the  clouds,  crouched  in  a 
suspended  basket,  as  Socrates  is  depicted  by 
Aristophanes  ?  ...  It  is  upon  Earth  that  the  poet- 
novelist  would  erect  a  dwelling  at  once  stable  and 
habitable. 

1  See  Manfred,  a  short  poem  in  which  Meredith  gives  a  not 
very  nattering  portrait  of  Lord  Byron. 

2  See  Empedocles,  another  type  of  George  Meredith's  satirical 
poems. 


202  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

THE   CONCEPTION   OF   EARTH. 

George  Meredith  maintains  that  all  morality  and 
all  science  must  be  founded  upon  the  conception  of 
Earth.  How  shall  we  build  upon  the  unknown  ?  We 
know  only  Earth,  our  one  and  ever-present  friend. 
She  is  the  only  particle  of  the  universe  that  we  can 
ever  know,  our  only  refuge  amidst  the  immensity 
of  things.  Other  conceptions  are  but  mists  and 
mirages.  .  .  .  Let  us  restrain  our  ambitious  soaring 
towards  the  skies  !  The  earth  after  all  is  our 
heaven. 

'  We  do  not  get  to  any  heaven  by  renouncing  the 
Mother  we  spring  from  ;  and  when  there  is  an 
eternal  secret  for  us,  it  is  best  to  believe  that  Earth 
knows,  to  keep  near  her,  even  in  our  utmost  aspira- 
tions. .  .  ."  l 

So  speaks  Matey  Weyburn  upon  his  knees  before 
his  mother's  dead  body.  And  the  poet  approves  : 
for  Earth  will  never  delude  us  ! 

By  my  faith,  there  is  feasting  to  come, 
Not  the  less,  when  our  Earth  we  have  seen 
Beneath  and  on  surface,  her  deeds  and  designs  : 
Who  gives  us  the  man-loving  Nazarene, 
The  martyrs,  the  poets,  the  corn,  and  the  vines   .  .  . 2 

Besides,  recent  discoveries  reveal  our  origin. 
Philosophers,  geologists  and  many  great  naturalists 
such    as    Darwin    have   been    able    to   adjust    our 

1  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta,  chapter  XIV. 

2  The  Empty  Purse. 


HIS    TEACHING  203 

genealogical  table.  And  since  Earth  has  given  us 
a  body,  an  intelligence,  a  soul,  we  can  truly  speak  of 
her  as  a  mother  who  has  given  us  our  birth.  Shall 
we  refuse  her  this  tender  and  rightful  name  ?  When 
Meredith  invokes  "  his  Mother,"  he  always  means 
the  Earth.  And  very  often  he  speaks  of  her  only  by 
the  feminine  pronoun.  The  reader  is  astonished  at 
first  ;  but  his  perplexity  soon  disappears  :  "  She  " 
can  be  none  other  than  Earth. 

Meredith  speaks  of  her  each  time  with  an  en- 
thusiasm in  which  there  is  a  mingling  of  pride.  .  .  . 
Pride  of  establishing  at  last  a  real  sonship  !  Pride 
of  possessing  at  last  our  true  home  !  We  are  no 
longer  a  fortuitous  accident  upon  the  face  of  the 
Earth ;  we  have  not  been  thrown  upon  the  globe  as 
angels  banished  from  the  skies  :  our  race  has  the 
right  to  call  itself  indigenous. 

Nearly  all  Meredith's  poems  treat  of  landscape  ; 
they  are  verbal  and  most  accurate  pictures  of  Earth 
and  of  her  most  fleeting  aspects  :  play  of  light  and 
shade,  warblings  of  birds,  and  buzzing  of  bees.  .  .  . 
Here  Nature  is  not  reduced  to  a  piece  of  stage  scenery, 
painted  and  arranged  for  sensuous  delight,  but  she 
exists  as  an  authority,  permanent  and  inevitable. 
Even  without  our  knowledge  she  is  supreme  judge 
in  conflicts  of  sentiment  or  intellect.  Though 
invisible,  she  displays  her  all-pervading  power,  as 
did  fate  in  ancient  dramas.  We  must  call  upon  her 
each  time  that  a  novel  or  a  poem  by  Meredith 


204  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

does  not  immediately  yield  up  its  inner  meaning. 
Neither  is  it  a  question  here  of  Nature,  as  something 
indeterminate  and  elusive,  but  of  Earth  herself. 
That  is  why,  in  Meredith's  works,  the  name  of 
Nature  occurs  less  frequently  than  that  of  Earth. 

However,  George  Meredith  builds  neither  a 
religion  nor  a  morality  upon  his  conception  of  Earth. 
Indifferent  to  philosophical  controversies,  a  stranger 
to  systems  and  creeds,  Meredith  does  not  arrive 
at  his  conclusion  upon  Earth  by  a  series  of  inductions. 
Earth  is  for  him  an  inborn  idea,  resident  in  him  as 
he  is  part  of  her.  He  conceives  his  own  existence 
as  distinctly  as  that  of  rivers  and  trees.  The  external 
and  the  internal  world  are  alike  limited  to  him  by 
his  all-embracing  mind.  He  counts  the  pulsations 
of  innumerable  small  lives,  obscurely  and  silently 
confederated,  whose  sum  constitutes  this  superior 
organism  that  we  call  Earth. 

Meredith's  thoughts  are  given  as  direct  messages 
from  Earth.  They  do  not  demand  from  his  con- 
temporaries either  glory  or  favour.  They  extend 
invitation  only  to  volunteers,  to  the  elect,  to  that 
small  and  honourable  minority  which  Stendhal  used 
to  call  "  the  happy  few."  To  these  only  is  pro- 
claimed the  teaching  of  Earth,  as  the  gospel  an- 
nounces to  us  all  the  words  of  our  Saviour. 

Certain  critics  across  the  Channel,  fervent  com- 


HIS    TEACHING  205 

mentators  upon  Holy  Writ,  have  been  exceedingly 
struck  by  Meredith's  solemnity.  They  attempt  to 
credit  him  with  the  virtues  of  a  prophet,  and 
publish  abroad  that  he  is  "  the  prophet  of  sanity."  l 
Well,  perhaps  so  !  This  is  justified  in  proportion  as 
Earth  has  need  of  "  health  "  for  the  conservation, 
the  multiplication  and  evolution  of  its  species. 
But  this  would  be  false  if  the  qualification  implied  a 
predominant  tendency  towards  morality  in  the  poet. 
According  to  Meredith,  morality,  like  all  other 
hygienic  measures  which  society  has  adopted,  must 
be  much  less  an  end  than  a  means  :  the  means  of 
furthering  more  efficaciously  the  secret  tendencies 
of  Earth. 

Could  this  morality  be  the  morality  of  Chris- 
tianity ?  It  is  almost  impossible  !  .  .  .  The  Christian 
moralist  discredits  Earth,  when  he  explains  man's 
spiritual  grandeur  by  a  presentiment  of  future 
felicity,  or  perhaps  by  some  dim  reminiscence  of 
celestial  perfection. 

"  And  why  should  we  be  insolvent  ?  '  cries 
Meredith.  .  .  .  We  have  no  need  of  an  element 
outside  of  ourselves  to  guarantee  to  us  the  beauty 
or  the  nobleness  of  our  being.  From  whence  do 
saints,    heroes,    despisers   of   material   things,    and 

1  The  expression  belongs  to  Mr.  George  Macaulay  Trevelyan,   &** 
occurring  more  than  once  in  his  excellent  book,  The  Poetry  and 
Philosophy  of  George  Meredith.    This  expression  has  now  become 
current,  and  English  journalists  do  not  fail  to  use  it  on  every 
occasion  when  dealing  with  Meredith's  style  and  genius. 


20G  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

workers  devoted  to  their  neighbours  derive  the 
power  to  conquer  their  egotism  if  not  from  their 
intense  love  of  Earth  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  the  spirit  of 
Earth  which  curbs  our  passions  and  supports  our 
moral  laws !  ...  As  to  universal  laws,  if  we 
manifest  so  great  a  desire  to  determine  them,  if  in 
this  respect  we  are  able  to  form  a  favourable  opinion 
of  them,  it  is  that  celestial  bodies  as  so  many  varied 
forms  of  Earth,  sisters  scattered  above  our  planet, 
its  guardians  or  its  parents. 

In  a  sublime  poem,  Meditation  under  Stars, 
Meredith  apostrophises  them  thus  : 

So  may  we  read,  and  little  find  them  cold  : 

Not  frosty  lamps  illumining  dead  space, 

Not  distant  aliens,  not  senseless  Powers. 

The  fire  is  in  them  whereof  we  are  born  ; 

The  music  of  their  motion  may  be  ours. 

Spirit  shall  deem  them  beckoning  Earth  and  voiced 

Sisterly  to  her,  in  her  beams  rejoiced. 

Of  love,  the  grand  impulsion,  we  behold 

The  love  that  lends  her  grace 

Among  the  starry  fold. 
Then  at  new  flood  of  customary  morn, 

Look  at  her  through  her  showers, 

Her  mists,  her  streaming  gold, 
A  wonder  edges  the  familiar  face  : 
She  wears  no  more  that  robe  of  printed  hours  ; 
Half  strange  seems  Earth,  and  sweeter  than  her  flowers. 

An  egoist  is  never  raised  to  the  height  of  these 
meditations.  He  has  voluntarily  uprooted  himself 
from  the  earth.  Stand  in  awe  of  the  solitudes,  the 
poet  advises  us,  and  run  not  the  risk  of  offending 
our    Mother !      Between    her    and    you    establish 


HIS    TEACHING  207 

contact,  cost  what  it  may.  Forget  yourself,  sacrifice 
yourself,  rather  than  forget  her  !  .  .  .  This  is  the 
price  of  wisdom.  .  .  . 

To  forget  oneself  voluntarily  ?  ...  In  reality  the 
sacrifice  is  almost  always  too  much  for  our  powers. 
If  one  essays  to  forget  oneself,  one  rarely  succeeds. 
But  the  inherited  experience  of  humanity  was  not 
amassed  in  a  single  day,  and  even  as  our  ancestors 
were  prodigal  of  their  sweat  and  blood,  we  also 
shall  have  to  pay  dearly  for  the  freedom.  Each  of 
us  at  certain  periods  must  in  miniature  live  over 
again  the  history  of  the  human  race.  .  .  .  Inevit- 
able crises  and  ordeals  over  which  Meredith  delighted 
to  ponder.  .  .  .  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,  his  Oriental 
fantasy,  has  exposed  since  1855  the  phases  of  a 
hard  noviciate ;  Richard  Feverel,  his  first  novel, 
was,  by  its  title,  an  "  ordeal."  His  succeeding 
novels  could  claim  a  similar  subtitle,  for  each  of 
them  in  its  different  way  analyses  a  soul's  appren- 
ticeship. 

Our  slow  and  stormy  evolution,  our  competition, 
our  strivings,  our  duties,  will  they  lead  us  anew  to 
the  Golden  Age  ?  Will  they  bring  us  once  more  to 
some  land  of  Cocagne  ? 

Meredith  hardly  thinks  so.  Far  from  deluding 
us  by  the  hope  of  a  promised  crown,  he  states  quite 
clearly  that  there  is  not  upon  earth  a  definite  victory, 
or  a  laurel  wreath  for  the  conqueror.     In  effect,  a 


208  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

triumph,  the  halo  of  glory,  the  deification  of  a  human 
being,  admit  of  repose  or  at  least  of  a  relaxation  of 
effort.  But  life  admits  of  no  cessation.  And  since 
progress  is  vital  to  us,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
assign  to  it  a  limit.  We  mutually  work  for  a  progress 
essentially  indefinite.  Nevertheless,  in  default  of 
an  end  defined  for  us,  we  regard  with  satisfaction 
the  standard  we  have  reached  :  certain  blameless 
lives  the  memory  of  which  is  ever  present ;  noted 
examples  of  bravery  and  virtue  which  have  been 
bequeathed  to  us  ;  high-souled  men  and  women  who 
have  paved  the  way  for  posterity, — from  age  to  age 
such  is  our  recompense  !  .  .  .  And  what  matters  it 
if  this  recompense  be  not  ours  during  our  lifetime  ! 
Future  generations  will  not  fail  to  give  us  our  due. 

Thus  it  is  obvious  that  the  chain  of  events  con- 
tinues without  a  break,  and  that  each  will  bear, 
sooner  or  later,  the  consequences  of  his  acts. 
Further,  the  fact  that  our  sins  are  not  injurious  to 
ourselves  alone  is  a  most  serious  reason  for  a  rigid 
control  over  our  conduct.  Meredith  shows  us  how 
the  innocent  are  overwhelmed,  annihilated  by  the 
calamities  brought  about  by  the  guilty :  Evan 
Harrington  pays  the  penalty  for  his  sister's  intrigues  ; 
Harry  Richmond  is  the  victim  of  his  father's 
extravagance  ;  Sandra  Belloni  is  driven  mad  by  the 
half-greedy,  half-foolish  shufflings  of  Wilfrid  Pole. 
Earth,  however,  is  not  vindictive  !  Teacher  before 
all,    like   Ceres   of   old,    she   makes   of   individual 


HIS    TEACHING  209 

misfortunes  profitable  examples  to  mankind  as  a 
whole.  A  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient  !  So  much 
the  worse  for  the  heedless  and  the  deaf  !  Earth, 
instead  of  bewailing  their  frailties,  devotes  herself 
to  the  fashioning  of  sound  men. 

Thus,  like  inexorable  deities,  the  laws  by  which 
we  are  governed,  demand  obedience  and  respect. 
How  useless,  and  even  blasphemous,  are  the  prayers 
in  which  we  express  our  egotistic  desires  !  ...  It 
is  effrontery  to  claim  privileges.  Earth,  being  just, 
ignores  favouritism.  Neither  undue  benefits  nor 
exemptions  are  granted.  But  a  sincere  believer  is 
contented  with  passionately  adoring  Nature !  The 
outpourings  of  his  soul,  his  pure  delights  give  him 
strength  to  look  the  future  in  the  face,  and  with 
greater  confidence  to  advance  along  the  road  of 
progress. 

Prayer,  provided  it  be  strictly  contemplative  and 
disinterested,  has  no  stronger  champion  than  Mere- 
dith, for  no  one,  in  a  long  and  toilsome  career,  has 
better  proved  its  virtue  : 

If  courage  should  falter,  'tis  wholesome  to  kneel. 
Remember  that  well,  for  the  secret  with  some, 
Who  pray  for  no  gift,  but  have  cleansing  in  prayer, 
And  free  from  impurities  tower-like  stand.1 

Again,  Shrapnel,   the  freethinker,  to   his  young 

disciple  Beauchamp  : 

Prayer  for  an  object  is  the  cajolery  of  an  idol ;    the 
resource  of  superstition.  ...  It  is  the  recognition  of 
1  The  Empty  Purse. 


210  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

laws  ;  it  makes  us  repose  on  the  unknown  with  confi- 
dence, makes  us  flexible  to  change,  makes  us  ready  for 
revolution — for  life,  then  !  ...  To  pray  is  to  escape 
from  routine  ;  from  pride,  our  volcano-peak  that  sinks 
us  in  a  crater  ;  and  from  fear  which  plucks  the  feathers 
from  the  wings  of  the  soul  and  sits  it  naked  and  shivering 
in  a  vault.1 

In  this  special  acceptation  of  the  meaning, 
Meredith's  work  is  one  long  prayer,  an  act  of  faith 
whose  manifestations  can  be  accomplished  any- 
where. .  .  .  Even  in  the  heart  of  a  populous  city, 
in  suburbs  begrimed  by  factories,  upon  the  quays 
where  the  sirens  of  steamers  scream,  blood,  brain, 
and  spirit  are  in  harmony  with  Nature.  But  chiefly, 
in  scenes  of  beauty,  emotion  and  thankfulness 
will  take  the  scales  from  off  our  eyes.  Upon  the  cold 
and  starry  winter  nights,  when  the  stars  proclaim 
their  mystic  hymns,  "  the  heavens  become  our  home 
more  than  the  nest  whereto  apace  we  strive."  2  It 
is  then  that  prayer  fills  our  souls  with  a  great 
blessedness. 

This  union  with  Nature  is  not  idle  fancy.  How 
many  poets,  how  many  thinkers  are  conscious  of  an 
indefinable  kinship  with  human  beings,  with  things, 
with  all  the  living  cells  scattered  throughout  the 
universe !  ...  It  is  proof  that  Earth  does  not 
remain  insensible  to  man's  cry.  Earth  understands 
and   hearkens   to   him.  .  .  .  Certainly   the   life   of 

1  Beanchamp'-s  Career. 

2  See  the  poem  entitled  Winter  Heavens. 


HIS    TEACHING  211 

Nature  is  not  to  be  compared  absolutely  with  ours. 
But,  between  the  two,  sympathy  is  manifested  in  a 
common  origin  and  analogous  laws.  In  the  pith 
and  in  the  blood  courses  the  same  vitality.  At 
unchangeable  periods,  the  same  affections,  the 
same  phenomena  of  birth  and  death  confirm  our 
parentage.  There  is,  then,  nothing  astonishing  if 
Meredith  is  wedded  to  Nature  ;  or  if  we  find  in  our 
poet  a  note  like  that  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi.  The 
voice  of  the  Englishman  is  rougher  ;  he  comes  from 
the  North  ;  but  it  sounds  not  less  affectionate. 

Like  St.  Francis,  George  Meredith  would  himself 
extol  "  his  sister  the  Water,"  and  "  his  brother  the 
Sun,"  if  he  did  not  reserve  his  loftiest  praises  for  the 
pastures,  the  tilled  lands  and  the  woods,  where, 

Sweet  as  Eden  is  the  air, 

And  Eden-sweet  the  ray. 
No  Paradise  is  lost  for  them 
Who  foot  by  branching  root  and  stem, 
And  lightly  with  the  woodland  share 

The  change  of  night  and  day.1 

Symbols  of  joyous  submission,  the  brushwood 
and  the  leaves,  where  gather  many  birds  and  count- 
less insects,  obey  without  complaint  the  decrees  of 
the  seasons.  Emblems  and  parables  abound  there- 
fore in  those  woods  of  Westermain  2  that  Meredith 
transforms    into    an   allegory.     Might   he    not    be 

1  Poem:  Woodland  Peace. 

2  Poem:  The  Woods  of  Westermain, 


212  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

mistaken   for  Melampus  himself  when    he   speaks 
of  their  botanical  life  ? 

With  love  exceeding  a  simple  love  of  the  things 

That  glide  in  grasses  and  rubble  of  woody  wreck  ; 
Or  change  their  perch  on  a  beat  of  quivering  wings 

From  branch  to  branch,  only  restful  to  pipe  and  peck  ; 
Or,  bristled,  curl  at  a  touch  their  snouts  in  a  ball ; 

Or  cast  their  web  between  bramble  and  thorny  hook  ; 
The  good  physician  Melampus,  loving  them  all, 

Among  them  walked,  as  a  scholar  who  reads  a  book. 

For  him  the  woods  were  a  home  and  gave  him  the  key 
k.  Of  knowledge,  thirst  for  their  treasures  in  herbs  and 
'k'     flowers. 
The  secrets  held  by  the  creatures  nearer  than  we 

To  earth  he  sought,  and  the  link  of  their  life  with  ours  : 
And  where  alike  we  are,  unlike  where,  and  the  veined 

Division,  veined  parallel,  of  a  blood  that  flows 
In  them,  in  us,  from  the  source  by  man  unattained 

Save  marks  he  well  what  the  mystical  woods  disclose. 

And  this  he  deemed  might  be  boon  of  love  to  a  breast 

Embracing  tenderly  each  little  motive  shape, 
The  prone,  the  flitting,  who  seek  their  food  whither  best 

Their  wits  direct,  whither  best  from  their  foes  escape  : 
For  closer  drawn  to  our  mother's  natural  milk, 

As  babes  they  learn  where  her  motherly  help  is  great : 
They  know  the  juice  for  the  honey,  juice  for  the  silk. 

And  need  they  medical  antidotes  find  them  straight.1 

But  a  monster  infests  these  woodland  shades — 
both  the  moonlit  glades  where  Sandra  Belloni  sings, 
and  the  mysterious  woods  of  Westermain  ;  also 
those  so  dearly  loved  by  the  dreamer  Melampus, 
and  the  large  and  lordly  domain  where  struts  Sir 
Willoughby  Patterne. 

The  monster  is  the  "  ego,"  the  execrable  "  ego  ' 

1  Poem:  Melampus. 


HIS    TEACHING  213 

of  the  thankless  and  presumptuous  egoist.  It  is  this 
"  ego  "  which  renders  us  insensible  to  sweetest  strains 
and  to  most  pathetic  melodies.  This  rampant  being 
with  its  coarse  and  passionate  uproar  so  silences  all 
celestial  music  that  we  pass  by  the  claims  of  Nature 
and  are  obsessed  by  material  cares.  Many  imagine 
that  it  is  sufficient  to  allow  themselves  to  be  lulled 
by  the  murmurs  of  the  forest.  Not  at  all !  It  is  still 
necessary  for  Siegfried  to  exterminate  the  dragon 
Fafner.  Thus  only  do  we  divine  a  new  language,  a 
language  marvellously  caressing  and  musical,  a 
language  lisped  in  a  former  existence,  in  the  far-off 
fairy  days  of  this  world  :  the  language  of  birds  and 
beasts. 

Melampus,  with  ear  attuned  to  Nature's  sound, 
drew  from  nightingales  and  rivers  their  secrets. 
More  than  that  !  He  invoked  the  god  of  the  lyre 
himself,  the  master  of  the  harmonies,  Apollo.  And 
the  latter,  lighting  up  the  dark  places  of  earth  with 
such  a  light  that  our  eyes  could  not  withstand, 
lavished  his  teaching  and  counsels  upon  Melampus. 
He  showed  him  wisdom  inaccessibly  enthroned 
looking  down  upon  our  frailties. 

Sweet,  sweet :   'twas  glory  of  vision,  honey,  the  breeze 

In  heat,  the  run  of  the  river  on  root  and  stone, 
All  senses  joined,  as  the  sister  Pierides 

Are  one,  uplifting  their  chorus  the  Nine,  his  own. 
In  stately  order,  evolved  of  sound  into  sight, 

From  sight  to  sound  intershifting,  the  man  descried 
The  growths  of  earth,  his  adored,  like  day  out  of  night, 

Ascend  in  song,  seeing  nature  and  song  allied. 


214  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

Melampus  dwelt  among  men  :    physician  and  sage, 

He  served  them,  loving  them,  healing  them  ;    sick  or 
maimed 
Or  them  that,  frenzied  in  some  delirious  rage, 

Outran  the  measure,  his  juice  of  the  woods  reclaimed. 
He  played  on  men,  as  his  master,  Phcebus,  on  strings  ' 

Melodious  :   as  the  God  did  he  drive  and  check, 
Through  love  exceeding  a  simple  love  of  the  things 

That  glide  in  grasses  and  rubble  of  woody  wreck. 


It  is  with  equal  piety  that  the  wise  Melampus  and 
the  poet  George  Meredith  have  studied  Earth.  In 
truth,  these  verses  express  only  an  ideal.  But  who 
can  differentiate  between  a  perfect  illusion  and  true 
reality  ?  Besides,  have  we  the  right  to  disdain  as  a 
mirage  an  ideal  that  Meredith  has  proved,  by  one 
example,  almost  magnificent  ?  .  .  .  On  the  con- 
trary, we  must  endeavour  to  understand  it  with 
sensitive  intelligence,  if  we  desire  that  Meredith's 
work  should  interest  us,  not  as  a  city  of  former 
days,  rich  in  picturesque  ruins,  but  as  a  living 
organism. 

Of  all  poets  Meredith  is  most  enamoured  of  earth. 
Provided  that  we  remember  this,  we  shall  yield  to 
him  not  only  our  admiration,  but  our  sympathy  for 
his  singular  gifts.  We  shall  not  then  criticise  that 
bewildering  faculty  of  analysis  which  is  applied  to 
the  soul  of  meadow-lands,  or  of  glades,  as  well  as  to 
human  beings.  We  shall  not  then  say  that  this 
tendency  to  perceive  the  infinitely  small,  and  to 
describe  it,  is  poet's  witchcraft.    But  we  shall  admit 


HIS    TEACHING  215 

that  fondness  can  confer  upon  poets  the  power  of 
clairvoyance. 

The  magic,  the  wizardry,  or  if  we  prefer  it  better 
the  genius  of  Meredith  consists  in  considering  Earth, 
or  all  things  of  Earth,  not  from  without  but  from 
within.  Therein  lies  his  originality.  Many  others 
before  him  have  spoken  worthily  of  Nature,  above  all 
in  England,  whose  poets  are  eloquent  interpreters 
of  Nature.  But  he  loves  not  Nature  for  the  sake  of 
idyll  or  eclogue.  He  is  neither  a  latter-day  "  lakist," 
nor  a  misanthrope  like  Jean- Jacques  Rousseau,  who 
flouts  society  by  preaching  a  return  to  the  savage 
state.  Such  a  reaction  would  irritate  a  thinker  who 
appreciates  the  successive  and  progressive  con- 
tributions of  civilisation.  Still  less  would  he  dream 
of  substituting  Nature  for  God,  of  humiliating 
Christianity  by  extolling  Paganism.  A  George 
Meredith  who  sends  us  back  to  Earth,  does  not  make 
a  fetish  of  our  planet,  neither  does  he  endow  it  with 
mystic  personality  :  to  remind  us  of  our  origin,  to 
focus  our  egoism,  then  to  demolish  it  utterly, — this 
was  his  object. 

Without  doubt  didactic  literature  has  been  much 
decried.  But  why  has  poetry  been  scared  away 
from  supporting  schools  of  thought,  if  it  is  the 
notion  of  Earth  which  inspires  their  rigorous  codes  ? 
Why  should  we  think  of  poets  as  providers  of  mere 
dainties  ?  A  Muse  which  ennobles  our  daily  toils  by 
placing   them   upon   the  pedestal  of  the  supreme 


216  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

laws  of  the  cosmos,  can  watch  over  our  duties 
without  repugnance.  In  the  dawn  of  the  twentieth 
century,  the  Muse  became  again  positive,  studious, 
learned,  careful  and  instructive,  as  the  first  gnomic 
poets,  even  as  the  ancient  instructors  of  humanity  ; 
as  a  Hesiod  or  a  Theognis.  Meredith,  without  wile 
or  bashfulness,  defines  the  most  important  of  his 
abstract  poems,  The  Empty  Purse,  a  sermon  !  .  .  . 

He  preaches,  and  with  all  the  more  fervour, 
because  he  imagines  that  he  is  a  voice  crying  in  the 
wilderness.  And  we,  his  hearers,  should  not  make 
a  point  of  ascertaining  whether  the  prophet  is  a 
pessimist  or  an  optimist  ;  nothing  would  be  more 
unreasonable.  Let  us  leave  these  points  of  dispute 
to  babblers  who  so  well  determine  either  the  good 
or  irremediably  bad  relationship  of  mankind  with 
the  outside  world.  We  others,  if  we  look  upon  the 
face  of  Earth  as  the  reality  of  realities,  if,  far  beyond 
all  bargaining,  we  revere  her  as  a  mother, — little  will 
it  signify  whether  she  has  brought  advantage  or 
not  to  one  in  particular  of  her  creatures  !  .  .  .  Our 
planet  renders  its  account  to  the  universe,  and  not 
such  transient  phantoms  as  human  beings.  .  .  . 

At  the  same  time  George  Meredith  does  not  exalt 
the  idealist  more  than  the  materialist.  In  the 
traditional  sense  of  the  word  he  is  not  a  "  believer." 
No  one  is  less  troubled  about  dogma  ;  and  touching 
articles  of  faith,  the  silence  that  he  observes  in  his 


HIS    TEACHING  217 

writings  does  not  seem  to  have  weighed  upon  him. 
In  conversation  he  was  more  expansive,  and  those 
who  have  had  the  honour  of  being  intimate  with 
him,  know  quite  well  that  he  did  not  incline  more 
towards  Catholicism  than  towards  Protestantism. 
What  an  abyss,  however,  between  Meredith  and  an 
atheist  !  His  generous  and  active  spirit  is  horrified 
at  the  idea  of  negation.  We  cannot  conceive  of 
Meredith  imitating  the  proud  but  hostile  and  defiant 
attitude  of  Alfred  de  Vigny.  He  would  not  write 
these  verses  with  so  bitter  a  melancholy  : 

Le  juste  opposera  le  dedain  a  l'absence 

Et  ne  repondra  plus  que  par  un  froid  silence 

Au  silence  eternel  de  la  divinite. 

George  Meredith  believes  in  the  presence  of 
divinity,  and,  for  him,  this  divinity  is  not  silent  : 
to  its  language  he  listens  everywhere  with  delight ; 
its  forms  and  its  kindly  face  he  perceives  and  adores 
in  all  places.  The  history  of  the  world,  the  past,  the 
present  and  the  great  future  beyond  attest  and 
presage  the  fruitful  work  of  Earth  to  this  poet, 
contemporary  of  Darwin,  and  impregnated  despite 
himself  with  evolutionary  ideas.  The  metamor- 
phoses of  species,  their  developments,  their  progress 
are  masterpieces  constantly  repeated  with  ever- 
watchful  solicitude.  Thus  religion  and  science  give 
of  their  most  precious  essences,  and  they  blend  with 
the  atmosphere  where  dwell  the  thoughts  of  Mere- 
dith.    This  persuasive  peacemaker  turns  us  from 


218  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

pseudo-ideas,  and  places  us  on  guard  against  the 
artificial  conflicts  which  are  created  by  colourless 
metaphysical  inquiries.  This  is  the  reason  why  in 
distinguishing  from  the  materialists  a  thinker  so 
sensitive  to  religious  emotions,  we  will  not  abandon 
this  devotee  of  experimental  truths  to  ignorant  and 
reactionary  idealists. 

This  also  will  readily  be  conceded :  a  spirit  to 
whom  certain  questions  do  not  even  present  them- 
selves,— although  they  occupy  the  minds  of  most 
philosophers, — such  a  spirit  leans  towards  optimism, 
if  not  by  reflection,  at  least  by  disposition.  In  fact, 
Meredith's  power  lies  in  this  :  he  tenderly  reverences 
the  decisions  of  Earth.  In  default  of  religious  belief, 
he  has  entire  confidence  in  her.  "  Earth,"  says  he, 
"  can  only  desire  her  own  welfare.  Besides,  we  are 
an  integral  part  of  Earth.  Therefore  she  wishes  us 
well.  .  .  ." 

But  why  does  this  conviction,  more  than  any 
other,  give  to  Meredith  an  unalterable  serenity  ? 
It  is  because  most  religions  distinguish  their  followers 
from  others  in  matters  of  divinity  ;  and  then  upon 
this  radical  differentiation  rituals  are  based.  But 
here  the  faithful  hold  direct  communication  with 
their  God  ;  here  there  is  a  trust,  boundless,  spon- 
taneous, direct  and  infallible,  like  the  trust  of  a 
newly-born  child  in  its  mother  :  a  trust  which  does 
not  demand  guarantees.  Meredith  pours  ridicule 
upon    unbelievers    who   declare    themselves   ready 


HIS    TEACHING  219 

to  believe,  provided  they  are  furnished  with 
proofs. 1 

Proofs  !  where  can  they  be  found  ?  .  .  .  Sup- 
posing they  exist,  would  they  be  intelligible  ? 
Meredith,  who  was  educated  in  Germany,  does  not 
hesitate  to  criticise  pure  reason.  In  the  case  where 
proofs,  whatever  they  may  be,  escaped  our  grasp, 
faith  would  appertain  to  the  intuitions  of  nature 
rather  than  to  the  uncertain  strugglings  of  the 
mind. 

We  must  not  lay  the  charge  of  failure  at  the  doors 
of  science  !  .  .  .  Science  has  never  promised  to  satisfy 
all  our  needs.  And  how  could  it  do  so  ?  .  .  . 
Abstract  by  origin  and  formation,  it  satisfies  only 
the  intelligence.  But  man  is  not  alone  a  creature  of 
mind.  According  to  Meredith  he  is  composed  of 
three  elements  :  body,  mind  and  soul.2  Whilst  our 
mind  is  troubled  in  the  presence  of  Earth,  our  bodies 
and  souls  warn  us  that  she  is  the  embodiment  of 
love  and  wisdom.  The  body  and  the  soul  by  their 
secret  suggestions,  all  the  more  commanding  because 
secret,  govern  the  hidden  depths  of  our  personality. 
This  suffices.  Often  for  our  welfare  we  are  irresis- 
tibly led  back  to  Earth. 

This  facing  about  does  not  in  any  way  subordinate 

1  For  instance,  in  the  poem  Earth  and  Man. 

2  It  is  not  out  of  place  to  observe  that  Meredith  indifferently 
uses  the  words  "  blood,"  "  flesh,"  "  the  senses  "  to  designate 
the  body  ;  and  for  the  intelligence  he  uses  "  mind,"  "  reason," 
"  understanding." 


220  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

reason  to  our  other  faculties.  When  reason  has  some 
advantage  to  offer  us,  neither  the  soul  nor  the  body 
must  cast  it  back  ;  still  less  will  they  desire  an  end 
that  reason  repudiates.  There  need  be  no  mysticism 
in  this.  Neither  the  body  nor  the  soul  fosters  a  gift 
of  second  sight  which  is  lacking  in  intelligence. 
Because  the  transports  of  the  body,  and  the  soul's 
aspirations  so  strongly  aid  the  efforts  of  the  mind, 
it  does  not  follow  that  their  intervention  has  a  super- 
natural and  half-providential  tendency.  Meredith's 
teaching  is  assuredly  exhortation  to  hope,  but  still 
more  to  be  courageous  and  resigned.  To  accept  the 
world  as  it  is  ;  to  conform  to  its  laws  without  idle 
comment ;  this  union  of  body  and  mind  with  spirit, 
then  of  human  spirit  with  cosmic  spirit,  constitutes 
an  act  of  supreme  faith.  On  the  one  hand,  the  mind, 
to  use  Meredith's  bold  expression,  "  stands  tiptoe," 
in  an  endeavour  to  vie  with  the  soul.  On  the  other, 
the  soul  surpasses  itself  in  order  to  be  raised  to  the 
level  of  the  soul  of  Earth.  Thus  is  disproved 
the  pretended  antagonism  between  reason  and 
faith. 

Not  being  a  founder  of  systems  of  philosophy, 
Meredith  makes  no  point  of  formulating  his  teaching. 
He  confines  himself  to  expressing  it  in  song.  Besides 
the  fact  that  his  processes  do  not  bring  him  into 
line  with  sociologists,  moralists  or  metaphysicians, 
his  very  tendencies  are  hostile  to  them.  Their 
inquiries  weary  him.     He   becomes  impatient  with 


HIS    TEACHING  221 

their  reasoning.     He  despises  their  endless  and  idle 
questionings,  "  that  sow  not  nor  spin."  l 

They  see  not  above  or  below  ; 

Farthest  a-e  they  from  my  soul, 

Earth  whispers  :    they  scarce  have  the  thirst, 

Except  to  unriddle  a  rune  ; 

And  I  spin  none  ;    only  show, 

Would  humanity  soar  from  its  worst, 

Winged  above  darkness  and  dole, 

How  flesh  into  spirit  must  grow.2 

Man's  heritage  here  below  would  be  a  goodly  one, 
if  he  did  not  lose  his  chance  through  vanity.  Our 
foolish  and  arrogant  pride  blinds  us  from  the  cradle 
to  the  tomb.  It  prevents  us  from  looking  out  not 
only  upon  life  but  upon  death.  It  induces  us  to 
dramatise  unduly  our  sorrows.  "  What  are  they 
doing  in  Sirius  ?  '  asked  Ernest  Renan  sarcasti- 
cally. 

George  Meredith,  without  rising  as  high  as  Sirius, 
places  himself  a  little  above  Earth  ;  and  at  once  he 
realises  that  individuals  count  for  less  than  genera- 
tions, and  generations  for  much  less  than  mankind. 
"  Whither  are  we  going  ?  "  becomes  a  question  more 
vain  than  this  :  "  From  whence  do  we  come  ?  " 
There  is  nothing  permanent  but  the  fruit  of  labour. 
There  is  nothing  stable  but  what  is  well  done. 
Our  death  is  a  phenomenon  like  to  the  falling  of  tha 
leaves  ;  it  does  not  necessarily  imply  a  resurrection. 

1  A  Faith  on  Trial.  2  Ibid. 


222  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

And  why  rebel  against  death,  why  fear  it,  if  we  love 
Earth  as  we  should  do  ? 

Death,  shall  I  shrink  from  loving  thee  ? 
Into  the  breast  that  gives  the  rose 
Shall  I  with  shuddering  fall  P1 

Besides,  Earth  voluntarily  yields  up  her  secret  to 
those  who  sincerely  love  her.  And  they  at  least  know 
that  for  one  generation  gathered  to  its  rest  a 
thousand  others  are  to  appear.  They  know  that  the 
old  must  give  place  to  the  young,  because  decay  is 
inevitable  in  a  universe  which  is  not  perfect.  They 
know  that  our  work  defies  this  universal  decay,  and 
that  the  gratitude  of  men  guarantees  us  immortality  ! 
It  is  immaterial  whether,  in  order  to  flatter  our 
"amour-propre,"  we  officially  commemorate  the  illus- 
trious dead,  as  in  the  Positivist  religion  of  Auguste 
Comte  ;  it  is  immaterial  whether  we  are  well  spoken 
of  ourselves  !  The  dead  of  least  renown  live  again 
in  their  children.  The  chain  of  mankind  is  immense 
and  unbroken.  All  of  us  by  our  deeds,  right  through 
the  ages,  remain  the  invisible  auxiliaries  of  our 
visible  and  distant  descendants. 

This  restricted,  and  one  might  almost  say  altruistic 
idea  of  immortality  belonged  at  first  to  Auguste 
Comte.  It  is  from  him  that  Stuart  Mill  and  Herbert 
Spencer  borrowed  it.  Then  George  Meredith  took 
the  idea,  illuminating  and  expanding  it  with  the 
flame  of  his  genius.     Immortality,  as  he  conceives 

1  Ode  to  the  Spirit  of  Earth  in  Autumn. 


HIS    TEACHING  223 

it,  no  longer  serves  as  a  platonic  reward  to  a  being 
dismayed  by  the  imminence  of  his  annihilation.  It 
is  more  valuable  than  a  reward,  more  valuable  than 
any  free  passage.  It  adds  to  our  belief  an  organic 
corollary  ;  it  entirely  permeates  the  mind  and  the 
soul  in  order  to  make  them  pure,  and  to  drive  out 
the  only  egotistic  regret  which  could  still  dwell  in 
them.  It  seems  to  augment  the  charm  of  existence 
only  to  mitigate  the  terrors  of  death.  .  .  . 

.  We  must  not  neglect  Our  Lady  of  the  Earth  !  She 
affirms  our  magnanimous  intentions  :  she  enlarges 
our  visual  horizon  ;  she  makes  still  more  sensitive 
certain  particularly  delicate  modes  of  thought. — A 
tempest  bows  a  forest  in  Rhineland,  and  Richard 
Feverel  sees  more  clearly  into  his  own  nature.1  At 
Wilming  Weir,  on  a  moonlit  night,  Sandra  Belloni 
revels  in  her  own  happiness  with  a  perfect  serenity.2 
It  is  while  traversing  his  garden  towards  sunset  that 
Doctor  Shrapnel  feeds  the  fire  of  his  angry  mood.3 
During  the  glorious  dawn  which  tinges  Venice  with 
purple,  a  tremor  of  love  agitates  Nevil  Beauchamp 
and  Renee.4  Matey  Weyburn  and  Aminta  link 
their  souls  together  upon  a  fresh  morning  when 
swimming  out  together  into  the  open  sea. 5  Nothing 
brings  Carinthia  to  her  brother  Chillon  so  much  as 

1  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel.  2  Sandra  Belloni. 

3  Beauchamp 's  Career.  *  Ibid. 

6  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta. 


224  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

their  mountain  walk  in  the  Tyrolese  Alps,  after  they 
had  left  their  father's  home.   .  .  -1 

And  if  the  sight  of  these  magnificent  scenes,  if 
contact  with  Earth  only  predisposes  us  to  a  pitch  of 
acute  sensibility ;  if  our  minds  demand  more 
explicit  commands  before  calling  up  reserves  of 
energy; — then,  we  must  consult  the  Spirit  of  Comedy, 
since  Earth  has  given  it  to  us  as  our  guardian  angel. 

THE   CONCEPTION   OF  THE   SPIRIT  OF   COMEDY 

Do  you  wish  to  have  an  almost  precise  idea  of 
this  angel  ?  Conceive  then  an  observer,  situated 
in  such  a  position  as  Jupiter  or  Uranus,  who  would 
unceasingly  judge  our  thoughts  and  our  actions 
with  reference  to  the  world  in  which  we  live.  Here 
we  have  a  faithful  representation  of  the  Comic 
Spirit. 

In  effect,  this  angel  is  above  all  a  judge.  It  does 
not  limit  itself  with  registering  the  vicissitudes  of 
certain  relations  between  humanity  and  Earth.  It 
compares  that  variable  relationship  with  the 
constant  relationship  which  ought  to  unite  the 
human  race  to  Earth.  It  compares,  calculates, 
appreciates  and  evaluates.  And,  in  doing  this,  it 
enunciates  the  measure  according  to  which  each 
individual  should  conform  to  his  duty  towards  the 
human  race. 

And  now,  to  define  this  duty.  .  .  .  Men,  in  very 

1   The  Amazing  Marriage. 


HIS    TEACHING  225 

early  days,  had  to  subordinate  individual  to  general 
advantage.  And  this  was  the  first  victory  of  their 
moral  conscience.  But  that  is  insufficient.  We 
have  acquired  since  that  period,  thanks  to  the 
progress  of  science,  more  precise  ideas  upon  the 
destiny  of  our  planet ;  the  intellectual  conscience 
has  been  enriched  and  fortified.  It  is  incumbent 
upon  us  henceforth  to  adapt  our  conduct  to  these 
new  principles,  so  that  the  moral  conscience  coincides 
entirely  with  the  intellectual  conscience.  This 
compact,  this  harmony  of  the  two  consciences  is 
indispensable,  if  we  desire  that  individuals  should 
work  together  for  the  welfare  of  nations,  and  nations 
for  the  good  of  humanity. 

Herein  the  Comic  Spirit  aids  us.  Even  as  human- 
ity dominates  individuals  and  nations  by  morality 
and  by  laws,  so  Earth  imposes  upon  humanity,  as  a 
guardian,  the  control  of  the  Spirit  of  Comedy. 

This  choice  may  be  displeasing.  Truly,  we 
should  not  have  believed  the  Comic  Spirit  to  be  of 
so  great  an  influence.  And  its  exaltation  to  a 
position  so  dignified  disturbs  us  like  a  paradox.  .  .  . 
But  what  really  offends  us  is  to  have  the  Comic 
Spirit  for  tutor  ;  precisely  the  only  "  Spirit  "  that 
we  cannot  take  seriously.  ...  It  is  repugnant  to  us 
to  submit  our  intelligence  to  a  power  of  inferior  order. 

The  origin  of  this  repugnance  is  that  we  confound 
the  Comic  Spirit  with  its  derivatives  :  satire,  humour 
Q 


226  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

and  irony.  .  .  .  There  could  be  no  greater  mistake  ! 
.  .  .  The  proper  function  of  the  Spirit  of  Comedy 
is  not  to  excite  laughter.  Having  nothing  of  the 
buffoon  in  its  nature,  it  is  no  more  jocular  than  is 
common  sense.  Sometimes  only,  if  it  compares  our 
conduct  with  that  which  should  take  place  in  a 
society  better  adapted  to  its  functions,  it  notices  the 
deviation.  .  .  .  And  then,  constrained  to  ad- 
minister punishment  immediately,  in  order  to  safe- 
guard the  indefeasible  rights  of  Earth,  the  Comic 
Spirit  makes  use  of  its  weapon  :  it  smiles.  .  .  . 

And  the  artist  smiles  also  when  he  notices  this 
deviation.  .  .  . 

His  work,  inspired  by  the  Comic  Spirit,  holds 
more  or  less  to  comedy.  But  this  does  not  aim 
solely  at  amusing  us :  Le  Manage  de  Figaro  may 
be  a  more  amusing  play  than  Le  Misanthrope,  but 
nevertheless  Beaumarchais  is  vastly  inferior  to 
Moliere.  The  Spirit  of  Comedy,  so  far  as  concerns 
only  its  profound  tendencies,  enters  more  rarely 
into  vaudeville  than  into  tragedy.  George  Meredith 
expressly  declares  so.  "  The  last  scenes  of  a  comedy 
can  be  written  with  blood" — as  the  Tragic  Come- 
dians— "  still  there  are  few  characters  so  large  and 
complex  of  mould  as  to  merit  the  simultaneous  aid 
of  both  Muses."  But,  on  the  contrary,  "  whoever 
laughs  at  all  things  misunderstands  the  comic  in 
comedy."     To  study  the  Comic   Spirit   is  not   to 


HIS    TEACHING  227 

study  the  smile,  but  much  more,  a  special  smile  : 
the  smile  fine,  subtle,  grave,  mysterious,  which  is 
prolonged  into  a  thought  ;  the  peculiar  smile  of 
Leonardo  da  Vmci.  .  .  . 

A  young  author  must  resolutely  pursue  comedy 
if  he  wishes  to  become  an  apostle  of  Earth.  The 
more  so  that  comedy,  being  not  confined  exclusively 
to  the  theatre,  yields  itself  with  considerable  facility 
to  the  narrative  form.  Is  not  Meredith's  Egoist  a. 
model  of  "  comedy  in  narrative  "  ?  But,  then,  all 
Meredith's  novels  are,  more  or  less,  comedies  in 
narrative  form.  The  author  did  not  run  the  risk 
of  taking  a  false  step,  having  determined  upon 
elucidating,  before  writing,  the  conditions  of  the 
existence  of  comedy.  His  researches  were  delivered 
in  the  brilliant  lecture  of  the  ist  of  February,  1877, 
which  was  printed  in  book  form  twenty  years  later, 
under  the  title  Essay  on  Comedy. 

"  A  society  of  cultivated  men  and  women  is 
required,  wherein  ideas  are  current  and  the  per- 
ceptions'quick,  that  he  may  be  supplied  with  matter 
and  an  audience.  The  semi-barbarism  of  merely 
giddy  communities,  and  feverish  emotional  periods, 
repel  him  ;  and  also  a  state  of  marked  social 
inequality  of  the  sexes  ;  nor  can  he  whose  business 
is  to  address  the  mind  be  understood  where  there  is 
not  a  moderate  degree  of  intellectual  activity."  1 

Here  we  find  the  reason  why,  despite  his  demo- 

1  Essay  on  Comedy,  p.  8  of  the  edition  by  Constable  and  Co. 


228  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

cratic  sympathies,  Meredith  draws  his  numerous 
romantic  characters  from  the  "  bourgeoisie  "  and 
even  from  the  aristocracy.  It  is  a  matter  of  small 
importance  if  these  characters  have  not  an  intelli- 
gence of  the  first  order.  A  recognised  standard  of 
education,  society  manners,  and  above  all  a  delicate 
sensibility,  these  are  the  essentials.  And  this 
condition  applies  not  less  to  the  actors  than  to  the 
spectators,  for  the  true  understanding  of  the  comic 
is  the  privilege  of  an  "  elite."  We  may  conclude 
that  it  is  necessary  to  have  assimilated  without  too 
much  embarrassment  the  customs  and  ideals  of  a 
very  select  society  in  order  to  perceive  readily  certain 
shades. 

So  perfect  a  union  between  theatre  and  stage  has 
been  maintained  but  once  since  Aristophanes  :  in 
France,  under  Louis  XIV,  Moliere  gave  his  message 
to  a  public  perfectly  ready  to  understand  him.  But 
he  had  good  fortune  on  his  side.  Authors  and  the 
public  since  then  seek  vainly  to  become  reunited. 
The  conception  of  the  Comic  Spirit  is  changed  whilst 
this  weary  game  of  hide-and-seek  lasts,  and  we  ask 
ourselves  what  will  become  of  the  infallible  and 
beneficent  touchstone,  which  formerly  tested  the 
characters  upon  the  stage.  .  .  . 

Evidently  Meredith's  thesis  presents  this  weak 
point  : x  the  Comic  Spirit  is  hardly  adequate  for  the 

1  Cf.  the  criticism  of  M.  Basil  de  Selincourt  in  Mrs.  Sturge 
Henderson's  book,  p.  220, 


HIS    TEACHING  229 

task  it  undertakes.  According  to  Meredith,  no  less 
subtleness  is  required  to  understand  pleasantry  than 
to  create  it.  .  .  .  But  -then  will  the  ignorant,  the 
boorish,  the  foolish,  all  such  stupid  folk  who  bring 
down  upon  themselves  the  anger  of  the  Comic  Muse, 
will  they  go  quite  unpunished  ?  Has  Meredith 
overrated  the  power  of  intelligence  ?  Perhaps.  .  .  . 
But  what  does  it  matter  !  If  we  are  unable  to  make 
proper  use  of  our  brains,  the  best  stimulant  still 
would  be  to  study  Meredith  !  .  .  . 

Any  other  writer  with  similar  gifts  would  have 
hesitated  between  philosophy  and  romance.  But 
George  Meredith  recognised  very  quickly  that  the 
latter  offered  the  most  expressive  manifestation  for 
the  Comic  Spirit.  Pure  psychology  has  a  'dignity 
of  its  own  ;  but  it  is  confined  to  dealing  with 
probabilities.  The  novelist,  on  the  contrary,  is 
bound  by  honour  to  reveal  the  fundamentals  in 
man's  nature.  He  casts  his  abstract  ideas  into  the  do- 
main of  the  imagination  in  order  to  retain  them  more 
firmly.  Fearing  to  lose  himself  in  the  labyrinths  of 
the  human  soul,  he  does  not  scrutinise  it  with  a 
magnifying-glass,  with  a  watch-maker's  eye  ;  but 
he  takes  a  bird's-eye  view,  as  one  surveys  the  valley 
from  an  Alpine  summit.1 

If  you  agree  with  Mr.  Trevelyan  that  the  historian, 
as  well  as  the  novelist,  can  trace  our  actions  to  their 

1  See  The  Egoist,  p.  3. 


230  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

extreme  consequences,  the  novel  will  all  the  same 
offer  the  advantage  of  differentiating  between  ap- 
parent and  real  motive  power.  If  in  the  interest  of 
his  dual  campaign,  theoretical  and  practical,  George 
Meredith  combines  philosophical  poetry  and  narra- 
tive prose,  it  is  because  as  a  novelist  he  devours  the 
oyster  of  which  the  historian  and  philosopher  only 
obtain  the  shell.  George  Meredith,  in  publishing  his 
teaching  of  Earth,  declares  war  against  egoism  ; 
after  which,  in  his  novels,  he  assures  victories  to 
the  Comic  Spirit. 

Egoism,  this  is  the  arch-enemy !  But  let  us 
beware  !  Egoism  is  multiform.  .  .  .  Egoism,  the  mar- 
row of  the  primitive  brute,  has  no  particular  shape, 
but  represents  a  principle  both  general  and  organic. 
We  pretend  to  strip  our  old  enemy  ;  but  in  reality 
we  dress  him  up  in  the  prevailing  fashion.  Under 
his  new  disguise  he  is  represented  as  the  product 
of  a  complex  civilisation.  And  we  treat  a  tendency, 
inborn  and  deeply-rooted,  as  a  senile  infirmity. 

Nevertheless,  the  Comic  Spirit  does  not  allow 
itself  to  be  duped.  It  spares  the  egoist ;  the  frank 
egoist,  who  is  a  veritable  dragoon,  a  monster, 
antediluvian,  fantastic,  unparalleled,  prodigious. 
But  it  cannot  pardon  that  insipid  and  vapid  senti- 
mentalism  so  hypocritically  virtuous  ;  a  debased 
form  of  egoism,  and  all  the  more  pernicious  in  that  it 
is  quite  deliberate.  .  .  . 


HIS    TEACHING  231 

Egoism  formerly  only  corrupted  the  mind  ;  the 
sentimentalism  of  to-day  poisons  the  conscience. 
Our  sentimentalists  vainly  pretend  to  blink  as  do 
short-sighted  persons  :  they  see  very  clearly  into 
their  own  natures. J  A  sentimentalist  covets  greatly 
the  glory  which  arises  from  renunciation.  But 
what  does  he  do  ?  Ingenious  in  procuring  for 
himself  without  any  effort  the  most  flatulent 
illusions,  he  shows  himself  brave,  chivalrous,  mag- 
nanimous, and  heroic  at  the  expense  of  more  feeble 
beings.  Nero,  for  example,  played  the  young 
sentimentalist  with  great  talent.  ...  Is  an  objec- 
tion raised  to  such  a  sanguinary  example  ?  It  is  not 
by  any  means  the  most  barbarous  !  .  .  .  Our  so- 
called  humanitarian  society  can  be  charged  with 
greater  ferocity.  In  order  to  convince  it  that  it  is  so, 
the  Comic  Spirit  has  but  to  open  that  enormous 
catalogue  of  egoism  in  which  the  doings  of  society 
are  registered.  This  Comic  Spirit  constrains  us  to 
run  through  the  catalogue,  then  to  compile  from  it 
a  manual.  These  abridgments  constitute  afterwards 
comedies  in  narrative.  .  .  .  How  many  injustices 
against  love  are  thus  denounced  ;  injustices  against 
women,  against  the  poor,  against  all  humble  and  dis- 
inherited persons  !  .  .  .  Let  us  try  to  indicate  them. 

At  the  outset,  what  is  the  outstanding  crime  of 
the    sentimentalist  ?  ...  To    disunite    unscrupu- 

1  For  example,  Wilfrid  Pole  in  Sandra  Belloni  or  Lord  Fleet- 
wood in  The  Amazing  Marriage. 


232  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

lously  that  which  Earth  had  united  ;  to  scoff  at  that 
which  our  flesh,  our  intelligence,  our  soul  form  into 
a  triple  and  inviolate  whole  ;  to  detach  one  of  these 
three  elements,  then,  half  idly,  half  calculatingly, 
to  use  it  to  the  detriment  of  the  others  ;  to  profess 
at  the  same  time,  in  order  to  find  excuse  for  its 
caprice,  that  our  body  and  our  soul  are  separated  by 
an  abyss— such  follies  as  these  are  but  sport  for  the 
modern  sentimentalist.  By  these  methods  he  runs 
into  two  contrary  heresies:  asceticism  and  sensualism. 

Vainly  does  the  Comic  Spirit  protest  that  man  is 
neither  angel  nor  beast,  and  that  neither  the  soul 
nor  the  body  can  incur  contempt,  since  the  both  are 
directly  sprung  from  Earth.  In  vain  does  the 
Comic  Spirit  extol  temperance  as  the  via  media 
between  two  excesses  equally  absurd.  In  vain  !  .  .  . 
The  feeble  voice  does  not  make  itself  heard. 

Nothing  seems  more  praiseworthy  than  to  separate 
our  soul  from  the  flesh.  The  Middle  Ages,  acting 
upon  the  teaching  of  theologians,  faithfully  modelled 
the  civil  community  upon  the  lines  of  monasticism. 
An  unfortunate  attempt  ! 

For  Nature  will  force  her  way,  and  if  you  try  to 
stifle  her  by  drowning,  she  comes  up,  not  the  fairest  part 
of  her  uppermost.  .  .  .x 

Such  are  the  bitter  draughts  of  sanctity. 

As  she  grows  in  the  flesh  when  discreetly  tended, 
Nature    is    unimpeachable,    flower-like,    yet    not   too 

1  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  Chapter  I. 


HIS    TEACHING  233 

decoratively  a  flower  ;  you  must  have  her  with  the 
stem,  the  thorns,  the  roots,  and  the  fat  bedding  of 
roses.  .  .  -1 

Above  all,  the  Comic  Spirit  strives  to  discipline  the 
senses.  But  is  to  discipline  to  extirpate  ?  .  .  .  Sir 
Austin  Feverel  hastens  the  bankruptcy  of  his  famous 
pedagogic  system,  through  having  brutally  torn  apart 
the  soul  and  body  of  his  son.  The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel  proves  asceticism  a  total  failure. 

On  the  other  hand,  far  from  flattering  sensualism, 
the  Comic  Spirit  denounces  it.  Whether  it  con- 
templates poor  Dahlia  Fleming 2  seduced  and 
abandoned  by  Edward  Blancove ;  whenever  it 
touches  lightly  upon  a  similar  subject  in  a  youthful 
poem,  entitled  London  by  Lamplight*  Meredith 
is  indignant  that  the  body  is  exploited  at  the  expense 
of  the  intelligence  and  the  soul.  Did  he  not,  a  week 
before  his  death,  reproach  Goethe  for  not  having 
renounced  pleasure  in  his  old  age  ?  Meredith 
cried  :  "  He,  to  be  making  love  to  young  girls  !  I 
hate  an  old  man  in  whom  passion  is  dead  and  who 
yet  desires  to  crush  a  young  flower  on  his  breast ;  I 
loathe  it  because  Nature  loathes  it."4  Little  does  it 
matter  whether  Goethe  is  disappointed,  whether 
Edward  Blancove.  is  publicly  accused,  or  whether 
Sir  Austin  Feverel  weeps  over  the  dead  body  of 
innocent  Lucy  Desborough  !     The  injury  is  never- 

1  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  Chapter  I.         -  Rhoda  Fleming. 
3  Poems  (1S51).  *  In  a  private  conversation. 


234  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

theless  done.  Outraged  Earth  demands  an  atone- 
ment. .  .  . 

A  little  true  psychology  would  at  once  confute 
ascetics  and  sensualists,  at  the  same  time  attesting 
to  the  solidarity  of  our  constitutive  principles. 

It  is  true  that  man  is  an  automaton.  But  we  have 
no  right  to  disorganise  him.  The  senses  lead  to  the 
brain,  since  all  motive  power  emanates  from  the 
centre  of  motion.  The  soul  in  its  turn  presupposes 
the  reciprocal  reaction  of  mind  and  flesh,  of  which 
it  is  but  the  symbol.  Never  does  the  soul  encroach 
upon  the  body  or  upon  the  understanding.  Beauti- 
ful flower  of  evolution,  of  later  birth  than  the  others, 
it  holds  to  the  soil  by  roots  that  resist.  How  many 
disputes  would  be  amicably  settled,  how  many 
enigmas  solved,  if  we  would  foster  a  more  sincere 
alliance  between  the  three  domains  of  our  being  : 
body,  mind  and  soul !  .  .  . 

And  what  solace  to  have  to  choose  no  more 
between  abstinence  and  licence,  between  Artemis 
and  Aphrodite  !  .  .  -1  Each  of  them  is  goddess. 
And  each  claims  exclusive  adoration.  .  .  .  There- 
fore let  us  give  homage  to  each  of  the  two  rivals. 
And  then  in  the  presence  of  that  inmost  tribunal, 
the  conscience,  let  us  continue  to  love  simultaneously 
through  the  body  and  the  mind,  that  is  to  say, 
through  the  soul.    Let  us  not  give  way  to  excessive 

1  Cf.  the  philosophical  tetralogy  in  the  collection  of  1901  : 
The  Vital  Choice,  With  the  Huntress,  With  the  Persuader,  The 
Test  of  Manhood. 


HIS    TEACHING  235 

muscular  development,  for  fear  that  Earth  may  be 
overrun  by  an  unwieldy  and  ignorant  crowd  of 
sportsmen.  To  sacrifice  all  to  the  mind  is  to 
multiply  those  abortions  which  we  name  "  intellec- 
tuals." To  shut  the  soul  up  in  "  splendid  isolation  ' 
is  to  dedicate  it  to  the  extravagances  of  the  mystics. 
An  ascetic  subjugates  his  body  ;  the  sensualist  scoffs 
at  spiritual  transports ;  and  there  are  tyrants  so 
jealous  of  their  prerogatives  that  they  detest  the 
fraternal  sympathy  of  intelligent  minds,  and  dread 
the  emancipation  of  women  as  one  dreads  a  hideous 
nightmare. 

Mr.  Warwick,  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne,  Lord 
Ormont  and  Lord  Fleetwood,  these  male  types  of 
Meredith's  refuse  intellectual  independence  to  Diana, 
Clara  Middleton,  Aminta  and  Carinthia.  None  of 
them  imagines  that  a  vehement  passion  can  establish 
absolute  equality  between  two  sexes.  Their  des- 
potism blinds  them.  "  Men  may  have  surrounded 
Seraglio  Point  :  they  have  not  yet  doubled  Cape 
Turk."1 

Hence  we  have  in  so  many  wedded  lives,  those 
disillusions,  those  tragedies  which  are  analysed  in 
the  fifty  sonnets  of  Modern  Love.  A  man  and  a 
woman  equally  generous,  but  of  unequal  intelligence, 
watch  their  love  for  each  other  slowly  passing  away. 
Its  twilight  brings  poignant  regret.    By  superhuman 

1  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  Chapter  I. 


236  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

efforts  which  are  infinitely  pathetic  they  seek  to 
re-establish  their  love.  All  in  vain  !  Despite  the 
charm  of  first  caresses,  despite  some  chance  recon- 
ciliations, "  a  gulf  of  silence  separates  them."  Even 
when  they  speak  to  one  another,  their  speech  is  not 
the  same.  Both  endure  their  martyrdom  with 
dignity.  But  the  man,  with  a  growing  sense  of  his 
right  of  lordship,  stoically  swallows  his  grief,  while 
the  woman,  heart-broken,  and  convinced  that  her 
husband  desires  only  his  freedom,  ends  by  putting 
herself  to  death.  In  reality,  it  would  have  ended  well 
if  she  had  possessed  more  brain-power.  Alas  !  "  the 
sense  of  women  is  with  their  senses  all  mixed  in."  x 

It  is  thus  that  the  widower,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
anguish,  sends  up  to  God  that  heart-rending  prayer  : 
"  More  brain,  O  Lord,  more  brain  !  " 

More  brain  ?  .  .  .  But  why  are  women  not 
more  enlightened  ?  Because  their  inexperience, 
their  ingenuousness,  their  simplicity  must  needs 
appeal  to  us  as  a  result  of  their  virtue.  Men  choose 
wives  either  unworthy  or  unsuitable.  Rather  than 
modify  their  standard,  rather  than  oppose  an 
antiquated  prejudice,  superstitious,  tyrannical  and 
barbarous,  they  choose  companions  incapable  of 
understanding  them.  Alceste,  fleeing  from  Celimene, 
will  perhaps  go  to  beg  the  hand  of  an  Agnes. 

The  Comic  Spirit  smiles,  too  furtively  for  women 
to  perceive.  Instead  of  invoking  it  they  descend 
1  Modern  Love,  XLVIII. 


HIS    TEACHING  237 

to  the  use  of  vague  sentimental  phraseology.  They 
also  confound  ignorance  with  innocence.  Too  much 
liberty  overwhelms  them.  They  detest  naked  truth. 
They  barely  approve  of  The  Sage  Enamoured  and  the 
Honest  Lady.  That  young  woman  who  too  frankly 
accuses  herself  of  an  excusable,  a  moving  fault — 
how  little  is  she  made  to  please  them  !  .  .  . 

Heroes  and  heroines  are  not  always  pleasant 
society  ;  and  we  feel  much  more  drawn  to  the  "  fair 
ladies  in  revolt,"  who  carry  on  a  discussion  with  two 
men  in  the  fresh  air,  the  ladies  the  while  leaning 
against  the  trunk  of  a  swaying  birch.1  Let  us  not 
pass  near  to  them  without  staying  a  moment.  .  .  . 

One  of  their  questioners  pleads  on  behalf  of  man  ; 
the  other  keeps  silence. 

The  most  eloquent  of  the  rebels  thus  speaks  : 

Fair  sirs,  we  give  you  welcome,  yield  you  place, 
And  you  shall  choose  among  us  which  you  will, 
Without  the  idle  pastime  of  the  chase, 
If  to  this  treaty  you  can  well  agree  : 
To  wed  our  cause,  and  its  high  task  fulfil. 
He  who's  for  us,  for  him  are  we  ! 

But  the  champion  of  the  male  sex  declines  this 

captious  offer. 

He  replies  : 

So  push  you  out  of  harbour  in  small  craft, 
With  little  seamanship  ;   and  comes  a  gale, 
The  world  will  laugh,  the  world  has  often  laughed, 
Lady,  to  see  how  bold  when  skies  are  blue, 
When  black  winds  churn  the  deeps  how  panic-pale, 
How  swift  to  the  old  nest  fly  you  ! 

1  A  Ballad  of  Fair  Ladies  in  Revolt. 


238  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

The  ladies  reply  : 

What  thinks  your  friend,  kind  sir  ?    We  have  escaped 
But  partly  that  old  half-tamed  wild  beast's  paw 
Whereunder  woman,  the  weak  thing,  was  shaped  : 
Men  too  have  known  the  cramping  enemy 
In  grim  brute  force,  whom  force  of  brain  shall  awe  : 
Him  our  deliverer,  await  we ! 

And  then  he  retorts  : 

But  say,  what  seek  you,  madam  ?     'Tis  enough 
That  you  should  have  dominion  o'er  the  springs 
Domestic  and  man's  heart  :    those  ways,  how  rough, 
How  vile,  outside  the  stately  avenue 
Where  you  walk  sheltered  by  your  angel's  wings, 
Are  happily  unknown  to  you. 

To  which  she  replies  : 

We  hear  women's  shrieks  on  them.    We  like  your  phrase 
Dominion  domestic  !     And  that  roar, 
'  What  seek  you  ?  "  is  of  tyrants  in  all  days. 
Sir,  get  you  something  of  our  purity, 
And  we  will  of  your  strength  :    we  ask  no  more. 
That  is  the  sum  of  what  seek  we. 

And  as  coquetry  never  loses  its  charm,  these 
ladies  enforce  their  arguments  by  many  captivating 
glances.  Amidst  the  warring  of  words  they  abruptly 
cease  and  say  :  "  And,  sir,  what  thinks  your 
friend  ?  "  .  .  .  The  latter,  very  quickly  succumbs, 
and  ends  by  giving  them  his  reason.  Upon  this, 
the  poet  indignantly  dilates  upon  his  discomfiture. 

And  he  apostrophises  Beauty,  which  he  considers 
woman's  weapon,  her  fortress,  and  her  veritable 
empire  : 


HIS    TEACHING  239 

Have  women  nursed  some  dream  since  Helen  sailed 
Over  the  sea  of  blood  the  blushing  star, 
That  beauty,  whom  frail  man  as  Goddess  hailed, 
When  not  possessing  her  (for  such  is  he  !), 
Might  in  a  wondering  season  seen  afar, 

Be  tamed  to  say  not  "  I,"  but  "  we  "  ? 

But  women  are  the  slaves  of  their  egoism.  Alas  ! 
...  In  fact,  according  to  the  Comic  Spirit,  a  "  League 
for  the  Protection  of  Women  on  account  of  their 
Beauty  "  would  serve  the  fair  sex  much  better  than 
the  riotous  demonstrations  of  suffragettes.  Yet,  far 
from  refusing  them  civic  rights  of  magistracy, 
Meredith  applauds  their  recent  successes  in  various 
countries  of  Scandinavian  or  Anglo-Saxon  race. 
He  takes  pity  upon  the  young  French  girl,  con- 
demned from  her  maidenhood  to  a  banal  manage  de 
convenance.  Further,  he  goes  so  far  as  to  state  that 
a  man  who  resembles  a  woman  without  becoming 
effeminate  is  the  ornament  of  his  sex."1  The  poet 
highly  esteems  women's  qualities  ;  and  no  one  will 
be  astonished  if  he  is  reminded  of  Diana  Warwick,2 
Lady  Camper,3  Chloe,4  Jenny  Denham,5  or  even  of 
Clotilde  von  Riidiger6  whom  Meredith  somewhat 
despises.  As  to  his  famous  aphorism,  so  often  cited, 
yet  so  badly  interpreted  :  '  I  expect  that  Woman 
will  be  the  last  thing  civilised  by  Man,"7  it  is  a 
two-edged  piece  of  pleasantry.    Man  has  really  not 

1   The  Tragic  Comedians.  2  Diana  of  the  Crossways. 

3  The  Case  of  General  Ople  and  Lady  Camper. 

4  The  Tale  of  Chloe.  5  Beauchamp's  Career. 

6  The  Tragic  Comedians.     7  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel. 


240  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

the  qualities  by  which  he  can  "  civilise  "  woman. 
The  latter,  intellectually  his  equal,  is  superior  to  him 
by  reason  of  her  divinations,  her  intuitions  and  her 
extraordinary  inspirations.  An  improvisatrice  of 
the  first  order,  somewhat  of  an  enchantress,  Circe  or 
Armida,  according  to  the  times,  she  possesses  the 
divining  rod.  Each  woman,  like  Jeanne  d'Arc,  has 
voices  which  give  her  counsel.  .  .  . 

What  a  pity  that  with  so  much  intelligence,  none 
of  them  have  consistency  of  achievement  !  ...  To 
this  lack  we  attribute  Diana  Warwick's  and  Clotilde 
von  Riidiger's  disasters.  Both  of  them,  like 
Vittoria,  are  carried  by  their  feelings  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  their  will.  With  others,  such  as  Rhoda 
Fleming,1  the  will  even  encroaches  upon  the 
intelligence  and  becomes  tyrannical.  The  bio- 
graphies of  these  remarkable  women  abound  in 
inconsistencies,  in  bewildering  contradictions 
between  their  plans  and  their  actions :  they 
deliberately  forge  chains  for  themselves  as  soon  as 
they  are  given  liberty  ;  tender-hearted  and  loving, 
ready  to  make  the  noblest  sacrifices,  they  un- 
accountably give  way  to  most  vain  and  foolish 
ideas.  Then,  when  they  have  forgotten  all,  weary 
and  bitterly  disappointed,  incapable  of  combating 
their  egoism,  they  allow  themselves  to  be  entangled 
in  a  maze  of  conventions.  .  .  . 

•        * 

1  See  especially  the  last  pages  of  Rhoda  Fleming. 


HIS    TEACHING  241 

"  To  pinion  egoism  and  to  put  a  check  upon 
routine,"  the  Comic  Spirit  puts  forward  this  message 
for  society  as  a  whole.  Certainly  Christianity  has 
already  commanded  us  to  love  our  neighbour.  But 
what  is  this  love  ?  .  .  .  The  quintessence  of  the 
moral  conscience.  ...  Ah  !  but  the  soul  has  the 
power  to  go  much  farther !  .  .  .  Even  as  an 
introduction  precedes  the  symphony,  as  a  sketch  is 
made  preparatory  to  the  picture,  as  dawn  heralds 
the  morning,  the  moral  conscience  demands  a  fuller 
development  towards  the  intellectual  conscience. 
It  aspires  to  this  metamorphosis,  lays  claim  to  it, 
struggles  to  obtain  it,  because  an  increase  of  intelli- 
gence calls  forth  over  all  the  Earth  an  increase  of 
happiness. 

And  whose  is  the  fault  if  we  are  still  far  from  the 
goal  ?  If  the  intellectual  conscience  sleeps  in  the 
state  of  a  chrysalis  ?  .  .  .  Why,  to  all  those  belong 
the  fault  who  doubt  the  reality  of  such  an  event  ! 
False  pride,  the  fear  of  touching  upon  questions  so 
delicate,  or  in  addition,  idleness  and  hypocrisy 
paralyse  them.  They  never  attend  to  the  sores  and 
ulcers  of  mankind.  They  rather  would  gag  the 
impertinent  folk  who  reveal  them  !  .  .  . 

For  example,  is  England  concerned  about  the 
misery  with  which  all  are  so  intimate  ?  No  !  .  .  . 
Instead  of  encouraging  intellectual  pursuits,  instead 
of  extolling  the  rivalry  of  knowledge,  old  England  is 
as  eager  as  a  child  for  its  games  of  football  and 

R 


242  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

cricket.  At  an  age  when  the  turmoil  of  the  senses 
transforms  us  into  birds  of  prey,  fortunes  are  placed 
in  the  hands  of  young  men.  An  imprudence  much 
more  serious  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  rich  create  the 
fashion  for  their  parasites  and  even  for  their  victims  ; 
they  go  about  always  escorted  by  their  imitators, 
and  these  eagerly  ape  the  vices  of  their  patrons. 

This  is  the  reason  why  Meredith  vigorously 
denounces  the  system  of  primogeniture.  His  poetic 
sermon,  The  Empty  Purse,  severely  reprimands  a 
young  man  of  quality  who  has  wasted  his  inheritance 
in  riotous  living.  The  German  professor,  Dr.  Julius 
von  Karsteg,  is  not  less  severe  against  English 
legislative  measures  when  he  questions  Harry 
Richmond  upon  his  future  prospects.  What 
terrible  accusations  he  fulminates  against  "  Great 
Britain  besotted  by  her  material  prosperity  "  ! 

"  Yes,  you  work  hard  for  money,  you  English. 
You  work  so  hard  that  you  have  all  but  one  aim, 
and  that  is  fatness  and  ease  !  " 

Although  the  same  invectives  occur  again  in  One 
of  our  Conquerors,  and  are  to  be  found  in  the  ironical 
words  of  Lord  Ormont,  George  Meredith  has  never 
blasphemed  his  native  land  as  did  Heinrich  Heine. 
No,  the  initial  cause  of  his  ill-humour  lies  in  his 
having  expected  too  much  from  his  compatriots. 
He  is  too  proud  to  be  one  of  them.  Their  progress 
does  not  content  him  ;  his  nimble  thought  outpaces 


HIS    TEACHING  243 

them  ;  he  ceaselessly  complains  that  they  do  not 
follow  him.  Now  he  rails  against  the  snobbishness 
of  the  aristocracy- — and  what  vexation  for  a  Celt 
passionately  attached  to  his  dearly-beloved  Wales,  to 
see  her  first  conquerors,  the  Saxons,  superstitiously 
venerating  the  phantom  of  Norman  Feudalism ! l 
Now,  despite  his  pacific  tendencies,  he  summons  the 
Government  to  reorganise  the  army  by  introducing 
conscription.  But  why  squander  millions  merely 
upon  armaments  ?  War  has  become  a  science  ;  as 
such  war  demands  more  than  physical  bravery  ;  it 
demands  high  intelligence  :  therefore  it  is  necessary 
to  regenerate  minds  at  once  by  a  reform  in  education. 
But  the  Anglo-Saxons  must  know  this :  the 
Comic  Spirit  denounces  their  egoism  !  The  greatness 
of  a  State  is  measured  by  its  contribution  to  inter- 
national progress.  Still  the  poorest  Greco-Latin 
races  are  richer  in  generosity  than  the  English 
people  :  their  emotions  are  more  quickly  aroused  ; 
they  are  much  more  obedient  in  their  filial  duties 
towards  Earth.  It  is  not  in  vain  that  Spanish  blood 
runs  in  the  veins  of  Aminta  :  she  brings  her  sullen 
lord  and  master2  to  terms.  Italy,  hardly  three 
centuries  after  the  Renaissance,  is  awakened  anew 
by-^>a  series  of  magnificent  outbreaks.  Meredith 
observed  these  shocks  while  he  followed,  as  corre- 
spondent to  the  Morning  Post,  the  Austro-Italian 

1  See  especially  Aneurin's  Harp  and  One  of  our  Conquerors, 
Chapter  XI. 

2  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta. 


244  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

campaign  of  1866.  His  Italian  romance  Vittoria 
appraises  these  risings.  .  .  .  The  charm  of  Italy  ! 
Italian  Emilia,  received  by  the  Pole  family,  is  the 
only  sympathetic  figure  of  the  English  romance 
Sandra  Belloni.  Similarly,  the  sun  rising  upon 
Venice  illumines  the  obscure  and  troubled  career  of 
Captain  Beauchamp  after  the  manner  in  which 
Claude  Lorrain  presents  his  fairy  creations. 

But  it  is  the  country  of  France  for  which  Meredith 
has  so  great  an  affection.  And  this  affection  is  by 
no  means  an  idle  fancy  !  ...  If  Meredith  does  not 
hide  his  predilection  for  France,  it  is  because 
nowhere  else  has  the  Comic  Spirit  such  dominion. 
In  Meredith's  novels  the  English  gain  nothing  by 
being  placed  in  contrast  with  the  French.  Madame 
d'Aufrray,1  Louise  de  Seilles,2  these  accessory 
characters  stand  out  in  unforgettable  relief  upon  a 
British  background.  Diana  Warwick  3  pales  beside 
the  ravishing  Renee  de  Croisnel.4  In  truth,  this 
loving  friend  of  Nevil  Beauchamp  is  symbolic  of  all 
the  charm  of  France.  She  it  is  of  whom  Meredith 
spoke  in  his  old  age  :  "  Was  she  not  an  adorable 
creature  ?  I  believe  that  I  am  still  somewhat  in  love 
with  her.  ..."  And  the  Socialist  Alvan5  is  not 
less  in  love  with  France  and  Paris.  Perhaps  with 
Meredith  he  shared  that  veneration  for  Moliere,  that 

1  Beauchamp' s  Career.  2  One  of  oar  Conquerors. 

3  Diana  of  the  Crossways.  si$  Beauchamp' s  Career.  , d 

5  The  Tragic  Comedians. 


HIS    TEACHING  245 

fine  and  profound  knowledge  of  French  history 
which  is  revealed  in  the  Essay  upon  Comedy.  He 
would  have  praised  and  painted  with  such  a  passion 
the  countryside  of  Normandy,  which  serves  as  a 
frontispiece  to  the  poem,  entitled  A  Faith  on 
Trial ;  or  still  more  those  vibrating  protestations, 
that  chivalrous  speech  in  favour  of  the  Duchesse 
de  Dino,1  whose  maternal  feelings  the  Countess 
de  Brownlowe  calls  into  question.  .  .  .  But  no 
homage  to  France  is  more  precious  than  the  four 
Odes  in  Contribution  to  the  Song  of  French  History. 
The  most  ardent  Frenchman  would  not  sing  of  his 
native  land  with  more  enthusiasm.  .  .  .  And  why 
this  idolatrous  passion  ?  .  .  .  Because  France,  in 
Meredith's  eyes,  is  not  only  "  the  Gallic  Giantess," 
"  Mother  of  Delicacy,"  "  Mother  of  Heroes," 
"  Mother  of  Honour,"  "  Mother  of  Glory  "  :  she  is 
above  all  "  Mother  of  Reason,"  or  rather  we  might 
say,  eldest  daughter  of  the  Comic  Spirit.  .   .  . 

And  yet  Meredith  accused  himself  of  not  having 
done  justice  to  France !  .  .  .  On  the  19th  of 
September,  1908,  he  sent  word  to  the  author  of  these 
pages : 

It  is  true  that  at  all  times  my  heart  has  beaten  for 
France  ;  and  it  is  not  less  true  that,  even  up  to  this 
day,  I  have  not  acknowledged  by  an  adequate  testimony 
the  debt  that  mankind  owes  to  her.  My  Odes  in  Con- 
tribution to  the  Songs  of  French  History  are  an  effort  in 

1  Article  upon  the  Memoires  of  Countess  de  Brownlowe, 
Fortnightly  Review,  February,  1868. 


246  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

this  direction.     If  I  were  younger,  I  should  do  still 
better  work.  .  .  . 


Thus,  despite  his  love  for  the  Welsh  mountains, 
despite  his  attachment  to  the  plains  of  Surrey  and 
Hampshire,  where  the  grass  waves  under  the 
breezes  from  the  south-west,  Meredith  does  not 
confine  his  affections  to  his  own  island.  Far  beyond 
France  and  Italy  he  greets  the  civilised  world.  How 
can  a  modern  people  live  in  separation,  when  races 
more  and  more  are  becoming  mingled  and  amalga- 
mated ?  The  great  wall  of  China  will  end  by 
crumbling  away.  .  .  .  But  this  is  not  all.  The' 
Comic  Spirit  wishes  still  to  demolish  these  two 
Bastilles  of  egoism  :  local  prejudices  and  national 
chauvinism. 

An  individual  must  not  withdraw  himself  from 
social  struggles  any  more  than  a  State  should  do 
where  the  conflict  is  international.  These  social 
questions  have  always  fired  Meredith's  imagination. 
His  favourite  work,  Beauchamp's  Career,  places 
before  us  a  young  politician  making  his  debut  :  it  is 
really  a  political  romance.  Besides  the  striking 
phenomenon  of  actual  political  history,  is  it  not 
the  revival  of  the  working-classes  ?  They  also, 
coming  last  after  the  nobility  and  the  bourgeoisie, 
throw  off  their  torpor  and  demand  their  share  in 
life's  well-being.  The  nobility  and  the  middle- 
classes  have  vainly  endeavoured  in  their  indignation 


HIS    TEACHING  247 

to  thrust  back  the  intruders,  who  energetically 
resisted  them.  We  are  menaced,  hustled  and  taken 
by  the  throat,  whilst  artists  and  thinkers  listen  with 
dismay  to  the  preparations  for  civil  strife.  .  .  .  But 
blessed  be  the  anguish  that  they  suffer  !  It  proves 
to  us  that  at  last  an  era  of  larger  fraternity  is  being 
inaugurated,  since  even  these  obstinate  and  proud 
dreamers  can  no  more  dare  to  detach  their  own 
well-being  from  the  well-being  of  society  in  general. 
...  In  our  time,  neither  poets  nor  philosophers 
leave  politics  to  the  "  Philistines,"  as  was  the 
custom  with  the  romanticists. 

This  encouraging  symptom  is  sufficient  for 
Meredith.  Judging  the  victory  of  the  Comic  Spirit 
over  egotistic  tendencies  as  infallible  though  perhaps 
not  immediate,  he  inclines  his  head  towards  Earth  : 
then,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  his  Mother,  he  patiently 
awaits  the  new  era  with  no  less  foresight  than 
patience.1  ...  It  is  this  foresight  which  reveals 
to  us  the  vague  possibilities  divined  from  afar,  dim 
as  larvae  in  the  dark  ;  but  it  is  to  the  patience  we  owe 
the  ripening  of  our  projects  for  the  future.  The 
union  of  the  one  with  the  other  maintains  the  balance 
of  human  reason.  And  man  is  taught  that  he  is 
neither  wholly  angel  nor  beast,  but  "  a  cowering 
angel  and  an  upright  beast."  2 

1  Foresight  and  Patience  in  the  selection  of  poems  entitled 
A  Reading  of  Life,  1901. 

2  Ibid. 


248  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

As  the  Comic  Spirit  is  not  a  twin  brother  to 
resignation,  it  by  no  means  imposes  upon  us  a  state 
of  apathy  :  on  the  contrary,  it  gives  ear  to  human 
beings  ;  then,  if  it  does  not  find  in  them  the  harmony 
produced  by  the  flow  of  the  blood,  by  the  reciprocal 
action  and  reaction  of  organisms,  it  abandons  with 
disgust  "  these  corpses  a-cold  for  lack  of  heat,  but 
without  death's  plea."1 

For  these  inert  creatures,  the  Comic  Spirit  can  do 
nothing.  Wrongly  separated  from  the  material 
order  of  things,  they  will  be  destroyed,  body  and 
soul,  after  death.  Thus  perish  all  who  indulge  in 
corrupt  practices  and  who  are  the  slaves  of  routine. 

As  for  brave  men  who  suffer  and  fight  in  order  to 
ensure  for  their  sons  a  more  happy  lot,  a  lot  with 
more  light  and  more  independence — immortality  is 
their  reward. 

Certainly  these  great-hearted  men  form  still  an 
elite.  But  the  day  upon  which  the  soul  and  the  mind 
will  be  less  subject  to  the  material  order,  the  moral 
conscience  will  have  become  part  of  the  intellectual 
conscience.  And  our  planet  will  have  entered  into 
the  full  possession  of  its  innumerable  vital  resources. 

On  this  same  day,  the  mission  of  the  Comic  Spirit 
will  be  ended.  We  shall  be  rightly  freed  from  our 
guardian,  because  we  shall  not  need  to  be  reminded 
of  the  constant  relation  between  mankind  and  Earth. 

1  Foresight  and  Patience  in  the  selection  of  poems  entitled 
A  Reading  of  Life,  1901. 


CONCLUSION 


HIS  most  fervent  admirers  must  not  complain 
of  injustice  if  George  Meredith  has  long  been 
neglected,  or  if  he  is  but  little  known.  Some  artists 
desire  a  prompt,  universal,  and  lucrative  renown  ; 
to  achieve  this  they  have  to  beat  the  big  drum  and 
learn  the  tricks  of  tub-thumping.  Others,  with 
greater  delicacy  and  pride,  who  aspire  above  all  to 
satisfy  their  own  sensibility,  are  intoxicated  by  pure 
sensuousness,  and  wait  for  fortune's  favours  with 
disdainful  patience.  George  Meredith  made  his 
choice  of  attitude  at  a  very  early  age,  and  the  unity 
of  his  work,  as  well  as  the  calm  but  stubborn  tenacity 
with  which  he  has  always  persevered  along  the  same 
path,  testifies  that  he  never  experienced  either 
repentance  or  regret.  If  he  had  suffered  too  cruelly 
from  his  bitter  isolation,  he  would  perhaps  have 
thought  of  turning  back.  But  in  each  poem,  each 
book,  he  ventured  further  forward,  careless  of 
exhausting  the  courage  and  fidelity  of  his  little  band 
of  admirers.    And  later  on,  when  at  last  the  English 

249 


250  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

prided  themselves  upon  possessing  in  him  a  great 
visionary,  he  appeared  to  take  pleasure  in  flouting 
their  admiration, — as  if  he  knew  that  they  did  not 
follow  him  too  closely, — as  if,  under  the  influence 
of  a  long  isolation,  he  had  been  conquered  by  that 
reckless  love  for  the  desert,  by  that  passion  for  the 
lonely  forest  which  sometimes  takes  possession  of 
the  most  daring  explorers. 

Let  us  not  commiserate  a  man  who  asks  not  to  be 
pitied  !  He  has  told  us  himself  in  an  extremely 
beautiful  sonnet,  Internal  Harmony,  that  he  envied 
not  the  success  of  his  contemporaries  : 

Assured  of  worthiness  we  do  not  dread 
Competitors  ;  we  rather  give  them  hail 
And  greeting  in  the  lists  where  we  may  fail : 
Must,  if  we  bear  an  arm  beyond  the  head  ! 
My  betters  are  my  masters  :  purely  fed 
By  their  sustainment  I  likewise  shall  scale 
Some  rocky  steps  between  the  mount  and  vale.  .  .  . 

With  the  quick  and  clear  discrimination  with 
which  he  regarded  his  age,  Meredith  understood 
that,  despite  the  splendour  of  his  imagination,  his 
teaching  and  his  art  scared  the  public.  It  was 
impossible  to  make  a  fashion  of  his  too  subtle,  his 
too  complex  art,  whose  innumerable  facets  dazzle 
feeble-sighted  readers  without  enlightening  them  ; — 
and  the  same  with  his  teaching,  so  simple  yet  withal 
so  austere,  which  contrasts  strangely  with  the 
subtlety  of  his  art  and  which  refuses  to  attract  us 
by  vain  promises.    Besides,  as  Meredith  grew  older 


CONCLUSION  251 

he  gained  in  wisdom  what  he  lost  in  imagination, 
so  that  the  didactic  tendencies  of  his  art  and 
teaching  became  still  more  intensified.  His  reason 
waged  a  pitiless  war  against  his  fancy.  In  the  last 
twenty  years  of  his  old  age,  George  Meredith  wrote 
nothing  but  sermons  or  satires.  And  the  public — 
be  it  English,  German,  or  French — cares  very  little 
for  this  method  of  expression,  because  a  sustained 
seriousness  disconcerts  it  no  less  than  intermittent 
irony. 

Herein  lies  the  reason  for  the  small  number  of 
translations.  As  to  their  insufficiency,  that  is  almost 
inevitable,  and  it  is  right  to  grant  the  greatest 
indulgence  to  interpreters  of  Meredith.  On  account 
of  the  capricious  method  of  his  syntax,  and  the 
singular  quality  of  his  style,  George  Meredith  ranks 
with  those  authors  who  can  hardly  be  translated. 
When  we  add  that  his  inequalities,  his  caprices 
render  such  an  undertaking  extremely  hazardous, 
we  shall  not  be  surprised  to  know  that  he  has  re- 
buffed most  translators,  and  even  publishers.  Only  a 
very  great  writer  could  translate  George  Meredith 
worthily.  Now,  great  writers  are  rare  ;  they  do  not 
always  know  foreign  language,  and  do  not  always 
incline  to  write  translations.  It  is  a  remarkable 
exception  for  an  Edgar  Allan  Poe  to  meet  with  a 
Charles  Baudelaire,  or  a  Stephane  Mallarme. 

Moreover,  if  few  men  read  Meredith,  still  fewer 
women  read  him.     This  is  hard  to  believe.     This 


252  GEORGE    MEREDITH 

man,  who  was  ever  a  chivalrous  and  enthusiastic 
champion  of  woman's  cause  ;  this  man  who  dis- 
played a  kind  of  veneration  for  women's  intelligence  ; 
this  man,  who  desired  an  absolute  equality  between 
the  two  sexes, — has  never  been  rewarded  for  his 
zeal.  ...  A  strange  thing  that  women,  v/ho  are 
the  best  agents  of  publicity,  have  not  repaid  him 
with  gratitude  !  Without  doubt  their  gratitude  is 
governed  by  the  difficulty  that  they  experience  in 
reading  him.  And  these  mordant  works,  so  difficult 
to  read,  do  not  fail  to  puzzle  them.  Meredith's 
eccentricity  is  not  clamorous,  rude,  and  frenzied, 
like  that  of  Nietzsche.  It  is  serene,  more  discreet, 
and  does  not  seek  to  astound  the  senses  in  order  to 
convince  the  mind. 

There  are  also  certain  readers  who  reproach 
Meredith  with  offering  them,  in  alarming  guise, 
commonplace  truisms.  Something  rather  para- 
doxical would  have  suited  them  better.  If  Meredith 
had  only  announced  with  sound  of  trumpets  a  new 
moral,  a  new  religion,  instead  of  remaining  loyal 
to  the  Spirit  of  Earth  and  to  the  Comic  Spirit, 
the  dabblers  in  literature  and  philosophy  would 
have  assembled  around  his  humble  pastoral  retreat 
and  would  have  acclaimed  him  triumphantly.  But 
the  master's  decision  was  irrevocable  and  high- 
minded  ;  he  knew  that  his  works  would  give 
pleasure  only  to  an  elite. 

Let  us  not  wish  for  him  a  success,  the  favours  of 


CONCLUSION  253 

which  he  has  so  nobly  refused.  Let  us  not  credit 
him,  after  his  death,  with  vulgar  longings  which  he 
so  much  detested.  But  let  us  endeavour  at  any 
cost  to  enlarge  that  elite  to  which  he  speaks, 
and  which  will  never  be  unfaithful  to  him.  Time 
will  be  his  most  efficacious  auxiliary.  Did  not 
Meredith  labour  ceaselessly  for  posterity  ?  And 
what  is  posterity  itself  but  the  imperishable  elite  of 
generations  yet  to  come  ?  .  .  . 

There  is  in  all  countries,  and  above  all  in  France, 
a  certain  class,  which,  by  reason  of  its  character 
and  culture,  is  predisposed  to  read  Meredith  ;  but 
many  well-informed  people  do  not  realise  this, 
because  the  poet-novelist  is  little  known,  and  still 
less  translated.  To  draw  the  attention  of  future 
disciples  to  this  extraordinary  man  ;  to  tell  of  the 
pleasure  which  contact  with  such  a  genius  has 
for  clear-sighted  spirits  ;  to  encourage,  in  a  certain 
measure,  persons  who  rightly  dare  not  undertake  a 
translation  of  Meredith, — such  is  the  purpose  of  this 
modest  study.  If  our  efforts  could  have  corre- 
sponded with  our  desires,  this  work  would  be  also 
a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the  great  man  whom  we 
have  had  the  honour  of  visiting  at  Flint  Cottage, 
and  who  has  there  received  and  encouraged  us  with 
a  kindness  we  cannot  forget. 


PRINTED   BY 

WILLIAM    BRENDON    AND    SOU,    '.TD. 

PLYMOUTH 


OUAVtftut  >i|v(*^vU^-  /V^>^T/ /       l^W 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000  253  635 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 


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